Arrivederci, Hammelburg
by SimoneSez
Summary: Who wouldn't want to sit out the rest of the war on an island off the coast of Italy? Colonel Robert Hogan, for one.
1. Chapter 1

Later… _much_ later… they would all think back on this, and they would all come to the same conclusion: everything had been going great, until Carter got hungry.

It was a beautiful day in Hammelburg. Everyone thought so. The locals, out on the street running their errands. The shop owners, glad of the fine weather that had brought so many people out of their homes, which would mean a good day for their tills. Even the four men in work clothes and billed caps walking down the Wilhelmstrasse were having a good day. They weren't even free to walk down that street in the first place, but it had never stopped them yet.

"We did it," LeBeau said with undisguised self-satisfaction.

"Smooth as glass," Newkirk readily agreed. And that was another good indication of what kind of a day it was: Newkirk was agreeing, rather than bucking someone else's opinion for a change. And why not? He had a strip of top-secret film snugly tucked in his wallet, fresh from the hidden safe of a local Underground informant, which would make life more difficult for the German High Command when it arrived in London on a courier plane in a day or two, and that was cause for celebration. He turned to look at Carter, trailing slightly behind. "You're quiet, Andrew. What gives?"

"I'm hungry," the American sergeant responded simply. Carter might have a knack for making things more complicated than they had to be on occasion, but sometimes when he was asked a direct question he managed to give an equally direct reply.

"It never fails…" So maybe Newkirk was about to lose his good humor after all.

"Well, we missed lunch."

"How could we miss lunch when we got the cook right 'ere?"

Walking a couple paces ahead of his men, Hogan wasn't listening all that closely, just enough to be aware that the status quo was indeed being upheld. The mission had gone off without a hitch, so that meant there had to be some squabbling on the way back to camp. It was their way to harmlessly blow off some excess energy when they were wound up.

"Can't we get something to eat before we head back? It's miles back to camp."

"You want to have a nice sit-down dinner in the _hofbrau_ with candlelight and a strolling violinist?" LeBeau pressed. "You don't think the local Gestapo would have any problem with us doing that?"

"I don't mean anything fancy. Just a snack. It won't take too long." Carter paused and gestured to the fruit store on the corner that they often used as a rendez-vous point. "I'll just go into Max's and get a couple apples or something, okay? It'll only take a minute."

"Go ahead," Newkirk agreed grudgingly. "It'll take longer to try talkin' you out of it. But hurry it up."

Carter sprinted eagerly for the door. He was back in less than thirty seconds. And he didn't have any fruit in his hands. "I, uh… forgot my wallet back at camp," he admitted sheepishly.

"What, with your papers and all?" Newkirk demanded, even as LeBeau attempted to get him to lower his voice. "You been walkin' around out here all day bold as brass with no identification? We coulda been stopped by patrols a dozen times!"

"And we still could be if you don't _tais-toi_!" LeBeau assured him, with a glance all around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear. The Englishman had a voice that could be heard a quarter of a mile away, and he seldom remembered to lower his volume when he was angry.

"Can I borrow a few _pfennigs_?" Carter asked. "I'll pay you back."

That said something for Carter, Hogan mused silently to himself as he too came to a stop on the sidewalk: he had a lot of nerve to push Newkirk any farther than he already had, but he never thought twice about it, or even seemed to realize that he was pushing his luck down a steep hill towards the nearest cliff.

"When I get you home…" Giving up, Newkirk removed his own wallet from his inside jacket pocket and slammed it into Carter's open hand. "If you're not back out here in thirty seconds, we're goin' back to camp without you!"

LeBeau rolled his eyes in disbelief. "And you think it's a good idea to give _him_ your wallet… along with everything _in_ it?"

"Hold it!" Newkirk barked after Carter. He took the wallet back just long enough to slide the strip of film out of it and tucked it into his shirt pocket, then handed the rest back to Carter.

"What could happen to it between here and there?" Carter asked.

"That's exactly what I don't want to find out. Now get a move on."

Again, Carter scampered into Max's fruit store, and the bell on the door clinged as it shut behind him.

"I knew this was too easy," Newkirk fumed.

"What can happen? He's only going into Max's for a minute."

"This is Carter, remember? And you're the one who reminded me of it. He ain't gettin' a chance to lose this film." Newkirk patted his pocket. "We worked too hard to get it."

"And you're sure you don't have a hole in that pocket?" LeBeau prodded playfully.

"I'm a tailor; I ain't got no holes in _any_ of me pockets."

That was debatable, but LeBeau decided not to pursue that topic of conversation any further when something much more interesting caught his attention. A girl, looking to be in her mid-twenties, rounded the corner and headed into Max's fruit store. She was blonde, shapely… and most importantly, not too tall. " _Oh, là là…_ " he murmured. "We need to get into town more often."

"Now that I think of it, I'm feelin' a bit peckish meself." Newkirk took one confident step towards the door of the fruit store, doffing his cap and giving his hair a quick smoothing-over as he did so. LeBeau swiftly moved ahead to cut him off, an ill-conceived move that left them momentarily jammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow doorway, with neither able to either proceed or back up onto the sidewalk.

"I saw her first!"

"So what?" Each of them elbowed the other to try to get across the threshold in first place; Newkirk finally managed to squeeze inside a split second before LeBeau scurried in after him.

Hogan was pretty sure he'd seen that doorway maneuver in an old two-reel comedy back in his civilian days. He sometimes felt less like a colonel than a referee. At times like this, he had a choice: he could let the scuffle blow over on its own, or he could pull rank. He preferred not to go to the second option unless it was absolutely necessary; these guys were only human. They might be able to come and go as they pleased a lot of the time, and there were other perks on this assignment that prisoners in the regular POW camps didn't enjoy, but this voluntary assignment at Stalag 13 was still a few ants short of a picnic.

In a few minutes, it would be over and forgotten… Carter would get his apples, Newkirk and LeBeau would likely both get their faces slapped by the pretty blonde, since apparently neither of them had bothered to notice that she was wearing a wedding ring, and that would be that. Back to business as usual.

So, while he waited for his Three Stooges to emerge from the fruit store to rejoin him in the street, Hogan occupied himself by admiring the display of stylish ladies' dresses in a nearby shop window. The blue sheath on the mannequin in the middle would look great on Fraulein Hilda; the shade almost exactly matched her eyes.

The next pedestrians to come down the street were a pair of SS troopers marching purposefully along the pavement in lock-step, obviously headed someplace in particular, and Hogan automatically turned slightly away so they wouldn't get a good look at his face as they passed. It was a pretty safe bet that they weren't looking for him or his men; they hadn't missed a roll call, and as far as he knew nobody even had any idea they weren't in camp. Still, it paid to be on the safe side. What they didn't see, they couldn't report back on later.

The two troopers arrived at the door of the fruit store at the same moment as an elderly man walking a bit unsteadily, leaning heavily on a cane, was coming out. The taller of the two SS men barked "Papers!", and the old gent hesitated not a single moment before reaching into his coat pocket to produce them. Nobody dared argue with an SS man using that tone of voice. Apparently what he showed them met their approval; in a moment the taller of the two soldiers shoved the documents back at him and then pushed past him to step forcefully into the fruit store. " _Achtung! Ihre Papiere! Schnell!_ "

Hogan's blood ran suddenly cold in spite of the warm sunny day. _Papers._ Carter didn't _have_ his fake ID papers… he had _Newkirk's_. That left Newkirk with no official identification, plus a top-secret strip of negatives in his pocket. If the SS men realized that… and they certainly would, within a minute or two…

 _Oh boy_. Now they were in trouble.

Inside the fruit store, Max and his four customers had frozen in their tracks when the SS men burst in. Carter was at the cash register, just about to pay for the three apples he'd selected; nearby, Newkirk and LeBeau were standing one on either side of the pretty blonde who'd been in the process of choosing a ripe tomato while trying to ignore both of the unfamiliar men showering her with unwanted attention.

Newkirk's problem was the most immediate one; he was patting his pockets in search of identity papers he well knew weren't there, since he could see them on the other side of the shop in Carter's hand. He had to stall for time, think of something… _anything_ … to tell the troopers that might distract them from the fact that he couldn't officially identify himself, and also ditch that film before they decided to search him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched one trooper check the ID Carter had handed over, and apparently satisfied that it was legit, handed it back. Swell. His forgedID had passed muster. Too bad he didn't _have_ it.

Carter looked on with an expression that was about twenty-five percent pure nerves and the other seventy-five percent stomach-churning guilt. Newkirk was going to have his guts for garters when they got back to camp. _If_ they all got back. And their chances weren't looking too good at the moment.

"Papers!" the other trooper said again to Newkirk. " _Schnell!_ "

"All right, I hear you… they were right here a minute ago…" Again the Englishman fumbled through all of his pockets; again he felt nothing except the secret film that he fervently wished was _not_ there. If he could just manage to unload that before they discovered it, there might be still some hope that with some mighty fast thinking he could bluff his way out of being without official ID.

That hope was dashed a moment later when the trooper poked him in the side with the barrel of his rifle. "You are under arrest!"

"Now hang on just a minute…"

That time it was less of a poke than a solid thrust to his ribcage that forced him two steps closer to the front door. "Silence!"

Hogan had been watching this whole nightmare unfold from the corner of the shop's front window, and in the short amount of time afforded to him to think it over there was only one thing he could think of to do about it. He pushed the door of the shop open and stepped inside, feigned surprise at the sight of the two armed Gestapo men, said "Sorry, I thought this was the laundromat", turned and ran out of the shop as fast as he could go. As anticipated, the guards eagerly snapped up the bait of his conspicuously guilty reaction, immediately forgot all about Newkirk and ran after Hogan instead.

LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk followed as far as the door to the fruit shop, where they stopped short to look down the street after the fleeing men. "We gotta do something!" Carter said.

"You _already_ done somethin'!" Newkirk countered. "That's how we got into this mess in the first place!"

The soldiers caught up with Hogan in half a block… or, more accurately, he _let_ them catch up, since he had no faith in his ability to outrun bullets. He selected a spot when he figured he'd drawn them away far enough, stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk and raised his hands in surrender. It would work out, he reminded himself as he heard the clatter of heavy-soled boots rushing up behind him. It would sure be better than those soldiers finding that contraband film on Newkirk… that would notbe explainable under _any_ circumstances, and it would be likely that nobody would ever see Newkirk alive again.

On the other hand, he'd been caught in town before - usually when he'd _intended_ for it to happen, but there was a first time for everything. At any rate, Hogan knew the drill: he'd identify himself to the Gestapo as an escaped Luftwaffe prisoner from Stalag 13, Klink would be called to come to headquarters to get him, would read him the riot act and gloat all the way back to camp, and then he'd draw a couple weeks confinement to quarters… or, if Klink was in a particularly German mood, there was always the chance he might end up in the cooler for a few days. It wasn't the way he'd planned on this mission ending, but it was workable. Now if the boys would just realize what it was he wanted them to do next: run like crazy in the opposite direction.

Back at the fruit store, LeBeau had indeed realized what their next move had to be. "We need to get back to camp," he told the other two reluctantly.

"What, and leave the colonel with them goons?" Newkirk demanded.

"What do you think he did that for? It was a diversion so we could get away with the film!"

"I ain't gonna let 'em just take him!"

"We _have_ to! You think he wants _all_ of us to get caught, _with_ the film, and one of us with no papers?" The Frenchman spared a cold glare towards Carter, who at that moment was almost completely sure he would never be hungry again. Certainly not for apples. " _Allons-y,_ back to camp. Max, can we go out the back?"

The shopkeeper, still waiting for his heartbeat to slip back into a more regular rhythm after the near miss, nodded as he mopped perspiration from his forehead with a red bandana. "You'd better hurry; the Gestapo garrison is right down the street. It won't be long before others come here. They leave nothing to chance."

" _Merci. Et bonne chance,_ Max." LeBeau grabbed Newkirk and Carter by their sleeves and pulled them away from the doorway to the street. Neither he nor Newkirk gave the pretty blonde near the tomato bin even a passing glance on the way to the back door that led to the alley.

oo O oo

The beautiful spring weather was also shining down on Stalag 13 later that afternoon. It's said that in the spring, a young man's fancy turns to love. That was also true of a certain middle-aged man's fancy: Kommandant Klink was in his office, but not even the most sympathetic of observers could have described his activity as official business. He stood in front of the small wall-hung mirror in his shirtsleeves, trying out a series of attempts at different seductive poses in preparation for a planned foray into town that evening. The waitresses at the Hausnerhof were about to meet their match, if he had anything to say about it.

His preening was interrupted by the strident ring of the phone on his desk. "Fraulein Hilda, please answer that call!" he shouted towards the closed door to his outer office. "I'm far too busy for any interruptions!" He turned his full attention back to the mirror. That last pose, one more time, but with his chin lifted just a bit more to bring out the strength of his jawline… _ja,_ that was better… then add just the slightest hint of a rakish smile. Receptive, but not too aggressive… that was the ticket…

The knock at the door was a bit of a surprise; normally Fraulein Hilda followed his instructions to the letter. "I said I'm busy!"

"But Herr Kommandant, it's Major Hochstetter on the phone. He says it's urgent."

"That Hochstetter; he has no idea of the dedication it takes to run this camp efficiently!" Klink reached up to smooth what little remained of his hair. "What could he possibly have to say that could be more important than what I'm doing in here right now to ensure that these dangerous Allied prisoners are kept under my constant, iron-fisted vigilance?"

"He says he has Colonel Hogan at Gestapo headquarters in town, wearing civilian clothes and carrying forged identity papers."

Klink's elbow struck the mirror as he whirled to face the doorway, and it fell to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. Just like his romantic hopes for the evening. " _What_?!"

oo O oo

Almost at the same moment, Kinch was in the barracks pouring himself a cup of coffee when the mechanism of the trap door covering the entrance to the tunnel triggered and lowered the ladder to the tunnel below below. "How'd it go?" he tossed over his shoulder towards the open hole. "You're back early. Must've been a cakewalk."

First LeBeau, then Newkirk, then Carter scaled the ladder as fast as they could go. They had been moving at that same speed since downtown Hammelburg, pausing only for the time it had taken them to throw on their respective uniforms down in the tunnel, and they were by now completely out of breath. "We ran…" Newkirk gasped.

Kinch was sharp, but even someone who wasn't quite all there would have immediately been dead sure that something had gone horribly wrong. " _Why_?" When nobody answered that question, he had another one ready. "Where's Colonel Hogan?"

A shrill whistle sounded from the compound outside, and the remaining men in Barracks Two looked at one another with confusion. "It's not time for roll call," Garlotti said. "What gives?"

Kinch was absolutely certain that Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau had all the answers to every question any of them might be able to think of… but before they had a fair chance to try and answer, two armed guards burst into the barracks, weapons raised. " _Raus! Sofort!_ " the one in the lead shouted. The other one went straight to the door of Colonel Hogan's office and kicked in the flimsy batten boards with one thrust of his boot. The door banged open, but it didn't disturb anyone inside. There _was_ no one inside. Which was exactly what the guards had just been told by a frantic Colonel Klink when he'd ordered them in here to issue a special in-person invitation to every prisoner in Barracks Two to get outside and be counted.

Kinch had the picture then, at least as much of it as he needed immediately. This was _big_ trouble.

Outside, Schultz ran back and forth in front of the barracks unsure of exactly what he was expected to do, or where exactly he ought to be doing it. Since he didn't know, it seemed like a good idea to cover as much ground as possible and try to look extremely busy. He had heard the Kommandant give the order to the two guards to proceed immediately to Colonel Hogan's barracks and find him, as if giving the order would be enough to make the American officer appear out of thin air. He was immeasurably grateful that the locating of Colonel Hogan was not, at least this time, his direct responsibility. It looked like there was a very good chance that the senior POW officer would _not_ be joining them for the emergency roll call.

The Kommandant was waiting for them in the compound when the guards hustled the unenthusiastic prisoners outside, but for once he hadn't bothered about being present and correct. No cap, no riding crop, no gloves, and his shirttail hung down a bit at the back of his uniform jacket, which was buttoned crookedly. Few of the men had ever seen him in that condition in public before; he looked fresh off a three-day bender. "Where is Colonel Hogan?" he demanded without preamble, of anyone who might be able to give him an answer that would appeal to him. _Anything_ except what Major Hochstetter had just lambasted him with over the phone. "I demand to see Colonel Hogan, now! This instant!"

The only three men who had answers for him weren't planning to clue him in anytime soon. Kinch couldn't help him, not that he would have anyway, but he hadn't even had a chance to get up to speed on what had happened in town. For their parts, Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau just seemed to be making an exhaustive study of feet… their own, those belonging to the guy standing next to them, the guards'… any excuse not to have to look up and make eye contact for fear of betraying themselves.

Hochstetter had been right, Klink soon realized with a desperate, sinking feeling. Any hopes he might have been holding onto of this whole scenario being some sort of sadistic Gestapo prank were fading fast. If Hogan wasn't here… and he _wasn't_ here… he must be right where Major Hochstetter had said he was.


	2. Chapter 2

Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg wasn't Hogan's first choice of a place to spend the afternoon, but up to now things hadn't been too unbearable. Hochstetter had screamed himself crimson, of course, and had come a bit too close for comfort; Hogan had caught enough of the major's lunchtime wienerschnitzel-and-sauerkraut breath to nearly knock him off his feet. But that had been the worst of it: as he had anticipated, his status as an American officer and a known quantity had kept him from anything like the standard hands-on 'interrogation' Newkirk would surely have suffered if he'd been hauled in here with no papers and that contraband film. As Plan B's went, this one wasn't working out all that bad.

Hogan had patiently given his name, rank, and serial number, all of which were already well-known to the major, and calmly stuck to his simple story about an attempted escape that had begun that morning in the back of the mess hall supply truck that had left the camp after dropping off a routine delivery of potatoes. Hochstetter could check on that if he liked, and Hogan was betting that he would, but he would find that it was true; the truck had indeed come and gone that very morning, and who was to say that he _hadn't_ been hiding in the back when it had driven out the front gate? A lie couched in morsels of truth was the hardest kind to disprove. Still, the major was a very tough customer to satisfy.

" _None_ of this explains why _you_ are the one escaping!" the major ranted. "You would leave behind your men? Or are there others who escaped with you? And there is the matter of your expertly… I mean, _adequately_ forged papers… how did you get them? Who provided them to you?"

 _Good,_ Hogan thought to himself… now he could be pretty sure that the boys, and the film, had made it safely back to camp. They hadn't been caught. "Sorry, sir, but I've said everything I'm going to say. Hogan, Robert E.; Colonel, United States Army Air Corps, serial number…"

"Silence!"

"Okay, but you're the one who asked me a question."

"When I get my hands on that idiot Klink…"

" _He_ hasn't escaped, has he?"

"He will wish that he had!" The intercom on his desk buzzed and he stalked over to push the response button. "What is it?"

" _General Burkhalter and Colonel Klink to see you,_ _Herr Major_ ," his aide's voice replied via the speaker.

Hochstetter checked his watch. "Klink must have run every red light in town to get here this quickly. All right, send them in."

If there had been any question as to why Burkhalter accompanied Klink, it was settled as soon as they entered. The Kommandant seemed to be using his superior officer as a shield; he stood directly behind the rotund general, slouched down far enough to take a full two or three inches off his height. "Major," Burkhalter acknowledged, with the customary tone of detached disgust he always used when addressing the Gestapo officer. "Klink has been telling me a very interesting story on the way over here in the car." He glanced at Hogan, who gave him a cocky smile. "And now I can see that he wasn't as drunk as I thought he was when he first started babbling."

"Nice of you to stop by, General," Hogan said. "You too, Kommandant… sorry if I took you out of your way."

"Naturally I appreciate the major's, um…" Klink groped for the right word. "Assistance… in this matter…"

" _Assistance_?" Hochstetter spat. " _My_ men captured _your_ escaped prisoner. That is not what I would call 'assistance', it is what I would call doing your job for you!"

Klink turned to what he hoped might be a more supportive ally. "General Burkhalter, I assure you that…"

"Don't bother assuring me of anything, Klink; I agree with Hochstetter. And I blame _you_ for making it necessary for me to say those words in the first place; I do not enjoy it. Congratulations, Klink."

"Uh… I'm not sure I understand, sir… congratulations on what?"

"I thought that I had already seen you at your most spectacularly inept, but it seems that I was wrong. As of this afternoon you have exceeded all my expectations in that area."

"Oh." Klink lost another inch of height, the shame imposing its own gravity on his shoulders.

"Excuse me, sir," Hogan put in, "but will we be going back to camp soon? I'm sure I'm taking up too much of Major Hochstetter's time… I don't like to overstay my welcome."

"You are not going anywhere, Hogan!" Hochstetter bellowed. "Not until I am through with you!"

Klink piped up again with some reluctance. "May I point out, Major, that Colonel Hogan is a Luftwaffe prisoner, and as such he is under my…"

"Does he _look_ like a Luftwaffe prisoner? Where is his uniform? Where are his dog tags? He has forfeited the right to be treated as a prisoner of war under the Geneva Convention and the Gestapo will treat him as the spy that he is!"

Burkhalter, who had been watching the exchange like a three-sided game of table tennis without bothering to move anything other than his eyes, finally decided to get back into the match. "Hochstetter, I would like a word with you in private." He glared at Klink. "And I do not enjoy having to say _that,_ either!"

"This is a waste of my time," the major snapped. "Colonel Hogan is a known enemy of the Third Reich and this matter is now in the hands of the Gestapo."

"I may have a proposition for you that will satisfy both the Luftwaffe _and_ the Gestapo."

"Very well." Hochstetter gestured for the general to precede him to the doorway, and paused to press the button of his intercom. "Corporal Bergmann, send an armed guard to my office at once."

"I'm quite capable of guarding Colonel Hogan," Klink objected.

"I have seen the results of your capable guarding. Corporal Bergmann, send _two_ armed guards… one to watch Colonel Hogan and one to watch Colonel Klink."

oo 0 oo

The strip of contraband film lay in the middle of the table in the barracks, and under any other set of circumstances it would have been quite a trophy indeed. But now the shine was definitely off the penny.

"You guys really take the cake," Kinch grumbled. "After everything going like clockwork for the whole mission, you _still_ managed to find a way to blow it on the way home!"

"Go ahead and say it," Carter murmured. "It's my fault."

"Okay, it's your fault," snapped Newkirk.

Kinch motioned for a time-out. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is; what matters now is what are we gonna do about it?"

"How long d'you think the Gestapo'll keep the colonel?" Newkirk asked no one in particular.

"It's already been _too_ long," was LeBeau's reply.

Kinch picked up the strip of negatives and attached it to his clipboard. "I'll get on the radio and confirm the courier plane for Friday night. First thing is we've gotta get this film outta here on schedule."

"Ol' Klink _and_ Burkhalter both went to get the colonel." Newkirk twisted the lit end of his cigarette in the ashtray. "That ain't gonna go well for Klink, Burkhalter bein' easily annoyed and all."

"Let's just hope the general can throw his weight around at Gestapo headquarters and get Colonel Hogan back here faster than Klink could manage on his own."

"If Burkhalter throws his weight around in town, we'll be able to feel the earthquake from 'ere."

oo 0 oo

The small high-ceilinged anteroom that Hochstetter led Burkhalter to was devoid of furnishings, its walls paneled in such dark wood that they appeared to be nearly black. There was no gloss at all on them, so the limited amount of light in the room from the wall sconces was effectively sucked into the paneling instead of being reflected to assist in seeing one's way around. There were no windows. What this room might be used for in the course of a normal day at Gestapo headquarters, Burkhalter neither knew nor cared to imagine. He intended to be in and out of there as quickly as humanly possible.

"Say what you have to say, General," the major directed. "You will not change my mind. Hogan has been a constant threat to the Third Reich since he arrived at Stalag 13."

"Yet again, Hochstetter, I agree with you." The general was beginning to feel physically ill every time he kept having to admit that; it was likely that he would find himself skipping dinner this evening, taking a bicarbonate of soda and retiring early.

"Then leave him to me. I will get everything he knows out of him."

That, the general didn't doubt. He was only marginally familiar with the Gestapo's interrogation methods, but it was clear to him that Hogan was in much more danger here than he had ever been at any point since he had first entered Germany. "Let us talk facts, Hochstetter. I might leave Hogan here with you…"

"I'm glad you see it my way."

"… and he might never be seen alive again."

Hochstetter shrugged. "The cost of doing business."

"I am not so sure I want to lose an important Luftwaffe prisoner to your way of doing business."

"Well then, by all means, return him to Klink. Hogan will be out of Germany in a fortnight, sipping champagne in a first-class car on an express train to Switzerland!"

"I was not necessarily going to suggest returning him to Klink."

"To another of your Luft Stalags, then! From those the prisoners fly away like birds! The only thing that can be said in Klink's favor is that he _had_ a record of no escapes, but that is no longer the case!"

It was tiresome speaking to Hochstetter for several reasons, but one of the primary ones was that he just couldn't seem to go five seconds without starting to yell about something. It took much more effort to hold one's own in such a conversation. Instead of trying to out-shout him, Burkhalter waited more or less patiently for him to pause for breath. "Let us be clear, Hochstetter… I too believe that Hogan will eventually escape from Stalag 13. It is hardly the first time he has been caught outside the wire. His successful escape would not look good in the report I would have to make to Reichsmarshal Göring. But there is another option."

"Oh?"

"Have you ever heard of Schloss Colditz?"

"The Gestapo has heard of _everything_."

And that was another tiresome thing about Hochstetter, his habit of referring to himself in the third person, collectively, as 'the Gestapo'. "They have had much success housing troublesome Allied officers. There the guard-to-prisoner ratio is nearly one-to-one, and due to its geographic features the Schloss itself is nearly impenetrable."

Hochstetter shook his head dismissively. "Schloss Colditz is not escape-proof. There have been many attempts, some of them successful."

"I am aware of that. I am speaking of a new prison camp that has recently been activated in Italy, modeled on Colditz. It is a special Luftwaffe project overseen by the Reichsmarshal himself. Preliminary results are excellent. They are using information developed from the administration of Colditz and improved upon it. Prisoners who go there _stay_ there. I think this might be the ideal place for our wandering Colonel Hogan."

"Interesting…" Hochstetter mused. "But what makes it so secure? Colditz is built on solid bedrock."

"So is the Castel Goffredo. But this bedrock is an island, swept by high tides and unpredictable channels. Any prisoner who somehow manages to penetrate the castle's foundation would then have to make his way over half a mile to shore."

"And this has never been done?"

"Not by anyone who was still alive when he reached land. The prisoners know this, and escape attempts are rare. None have ever succeeded. It is believed that none ever will."

Burkhalter could almost see the sadism light on Hochstetter's mental dashboard flicker on. The man was likely incapable of an actual smile, but he did sometimes manage to curl his mouth, snake-like, more or less upwards… and he was doing that now. "I would like to hear more about this prison camp of Reichsmarshal Göring's… General, would you join me in more hospitable surroundings, and perhaps a glass of schnapps?"

A good stiff drink would be an excellent aid to tolerating the major's continued company. Burkhalter nodded wordlessly, and the two men left the small dark room.

oo 0 oo

Klink was sitting on the divan in front of the warm fire, about eighty percent of the way to fast asleep, and if Hogan had been of a mind to try and escape the clutches of the Iron Eagle, it wouldn't have been too hard… all he would have to do would be to step around him. Good thing Hochstetter had thought to send in those two armed guards. It wasn't any fun when they made things _too_ easy for him.

There was no such thing as relaxation for Hogan, though. All he could think about was getting back to camp and having a debriefing on how _not_ to finish up a mission, the pitfalls of overconfidence, and anything else that might come to mind. Someone needed to go back into town and check on Max to make sure he was all right. Why had those troopers shown up in the fruit store in the first place? Was Max's cover under suspicion? He might need to be relocated; that was a complex procedure, but if it needed to be done they could handle it. And if the fruit store was no longer a safe place to rendez-vous, another location would have to be identified and the information would need to be disseminated to all the Underground units in the Hammelburg area, before anyone else got made. The events of one unlucky afternoon would end up creating a week's worth of extra work for their escape and sabotage network.

Boy… could he use a vacation.

It didn't surprise him that Hochstetter and Burkhalter were gone for some time; the two were polar opposites personality-wise and it made sense that it would take a while for them to agree on the next logical step to be taken. It _did_ surprise him that when the two of them finally re-entered Hochstetter's office, both of them looked satisfied. That wasn't a good kind of a surprise from his standpoint.

Both German officers glared with contempt at the dozing Klink… well, that was one other thing they could agree on. Hochstetter gave the leg of the sofa a vicious kick with his boot, jolting Klink wide awake. "The Kommandant is leaving," Hochstetter advised the guard who had been assigned to watch him. "You may go." The soldier saluted and headed for the door, and Hochstetter turned to the second guard. "Colonel Hogan is leaving as well, but he will require an escort."

"Thanks, Major," Hogan said. "But I don't want to put you to too much trouble. I know my way back to camp."

"No trouble at all, Hogan." The major thrust a document into Klink's hands along with a pen. "Sign here, Klink."

"What's this?" He squinted at the paperwork through his monocle.

"That is authorization to transport Colonel Hogan to the Castel Goffredo POW camp; he is leaving immediately. Your signature removes him from Stalag 13's rolls as well as from your responsibility."

"Hey, _wait_ a minute!" Hogan interjected, all his previous self-confident cockiness evaporating in the blink of an eye. "What's going on here?"

"Surprised, Hogan?" Hochstetter gloated.

Surprised? Damn right he was. But he was a lot of other things as well… 'shaken to the core' was kind of out in front. This wasn't supposed to happen. It had never happened before, and it shouldn't be happening now. He should be loaded into the back of a truck, driven back to camp, chewed out by Klink, and that should be the end of it, just like always. "You can't do that!" But even as Hogan said it he knew very well that they could. They already had.

Klink was almost equally taken aback. "Major Hochstetter, I protest! Colonel Hogan is _my_ prisoner!"

"His transfer has already been approved."

"By whom?"

"By _me_ ," Burkhalter said. "It is obvious, Klink, that Colonel Hogan is well on his way to completing a successful escape, and I cannot allow that to happen. It is bad for morale."

"But…"

"The only thing you have going for you is your no-escapes record, Klink. Without that, you are well on your way to something as well, but unlike Hogan you would be walking towards it wearing snowshoes. Are you quite sure you wish to continue?"

No. He wasn't. Klink closed his mouth. His somewhat shaky signature was soon affixed on the indicated line, and he handed the document and the pen back to the major without uttering another syllable.

Hogan's mind raced, and it was much like the unpleasant sensation of watching his life pass before his eyes. He was being kicked out of Stalag 13 and going… _where_? "Sir, I demand to know where I'm being taken!"

"You are not in a position to demand anything, Hogan, but I am quite willing to tell you," Burkhalter said. "Castel Goffredo is on a small island off the western coast of Italy. There you will find yourself in the company of other Allied officers who have caused more than their share of trouble in Luft Stalags. I'm sure you will all find much to talk about as you await the end of the war." He turned to the remaining guard. "Kommandant Klink had the foresight to bring Colonel Hogan's uniform. It is in the trunk of my staff car. Tell my driver to bring it here."

The totality of the whole situation was hitting Hogan now, hard and right between the eyes. He'd finally done it. He'd finally crossed the line the Germans were no longer willing to re-draw for him over and over again. His diversion to get the heat off Newkirk in the fruit store was likely the last thing he would ever do as a commanding officer. He'd lost it all. The escape unit. The sabotage. The whole operation. _Everything._

Ten minutes later, when he was back in his own uniform and being loaded into the back of the truck the Gestapo had thoughtfully provided to take him far away from Hammelburg, he realized he had one more regret.

He wouldn't get to say goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Reader baja-king kindly pointed out to me that there's a real place in Italy called Castel Goffredo. Since I want my location to be completely fictional, I've changed the name of the island to Castel Fiocco, which it seems Google has never heard of. Grazie, baja-king!_

The game of horseshoes out in front of Barracks Two that afternoon was unusual for a couple of different reasons. Number one, nobody was keeping score. Number two, it had been going on for nearly two hours. Everyone was dead set on being right there the moment the colonel got back. They were in for a telling-off, they all knew it, and there was nothing else for it but to be there ready and waiting.

When LeBeau spotted General Burkhalter's car coming down the road headed for the front gate, he got so excited he dropped a horseshoe on Newkirk's foot. " _Là-bas. Finalement!_ "

"You're a ruddy menace with them things, you know what I mean?" But the horseshoe had more or less bounced off his boot without any damage, and Newkirk forgot all about it as the four of them watched the car stop in front of Klink's office. First Burkhalter and then Klink alighted from the car, but no one else. "They must've sent the guv'nor in a lorry."

They all craned their necks hoping to catch sight of any truck following behind. Nothing. "Where is it?" Carter asked no one in particular.

"Probably got held up at the checkpoint outside Hammelburg," Kinch said. "Burkhalter can blow his way through with hot air, but sometimes the trucks take longer to make it past the sentries. It'll be along any minute."

"How mad do you think Colonel Hogan'll be about what happened in town?" was Carter's next question. He sounded more than a little apprehensive. And with good reason.

"If I was you, I'd be makin' out me will right now," Newkirk replied.

Three minutes. Five minutes. Eight minutes. Then ten.

Still no truck. Still no colonel.

Kinch turned and headed back towards the door to the barracks. "I'm gonna check the coffee pot."

The other three men remained where they were, eyes fixed on the closed front gate and the empty road beyond it, as if sheer will would cause the expected truck to appear.

"Maybe they had a flat tire," Carter suggested.

Newkirk shook his head. "They coulda _walked_ here by now."

They all jumped when the window shutter right next to them banged open and Garlotti stuck his head out. "Hey, fellas! Kinch says get in here, and fast!"

Kinch immediately motioned for quiet when the three of them came barreling into Colonel Hogan's office like an avalanche, gesturing to the speaker of the coffee pot that served as the listening device for the Kommandant's inner office. Klink was speaking, and he sounded more rattled than usual.

 _"But General Burkhalter, I'm still not certain that I understand the reasoning behind this decision."_

 _"Klink, I have no time to explain reasoning to you. I would be starting from scratch and it would take far too long. I have to be back in Berlin tomorrow. There I must make my report to Reichsmarshal Göring."_

 _"I don't suppose…"_

 _"What?"_

 _"That you might… mention my name in your report?"_

 _"Certainly, Klink. I was planning to."_

 _"Thank you, General!"_

 _"I will mention your name as the dummkopf who allowed Colonel Hogan to make it all the way into Hammelburg wearing civilian clothes and carrying forged identity papers and did not even know he was missing from the camp. If the Reichsmarshal has any doubts as to whether his efforts to provide special accommodations for particularly troublesome enemies of the Third Reich are justified, that should put his mind at rest."_

This time Klink's voice was barely a mumble. _"Thank you, General…"_

"What 'special accommodations'?" LeBeau demanded.

"You mean they sent the colonel to Berlin?" Newkirk chimed in. "Well, that's…"

"If you'll shut up a minute maybe we can find out!" Kinch cut him off. "I haven't heard enough to know what's going on yet!"

Unfortunately for his unseen audience hanging on tenterhooks, Burkhalter left the office immediately thereafter to get back in his car and leave the camp. That left Klink alone… and, whatever his other shortcomings might be, talking to himself was not one of them, so nothing but a frustrating silence came over the speaker.

Carter finally broke the quiet. "What now?"

"If the colonel were 'ere he'd just go in there and chat up ol' Klink to find out what was goin' on." Newkirk's observation was a perfect illustration of their real problem. No other prisoner had either the right or the advanced state of self-confidence to attempt the same. "Right now we're dead in the water."

"You don't think they…" Carter broke off, unable to finish the sentence he had just started. "I mean, they wouldn't have… y'know… they c _ouldn't_ have…"

Killed the colonel? It was almost as impossible to think about as it was for Carter to articulate. "I don't think so," Kinch deferred. "The 'special accommodations' the general just mentioned… that doesn't sound like the same thing."

"We have to be sure," LeBeau insisted. "Maybe Klink will call for Schultz and tell him what's going on."

"And maybe he won't," Newkirk countered.

Kinch headed for the door. "And maybe we can make sure he does."

oo 0 oo

Schultz was in the middle of one of his least favorite activities: walking. Back and forth, inside the wire, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other over and over again, with the only thought in his mind the upcoming changing of the guard when he could finally set down his heavy rifle and hit the sergeants' mess. Sauerbraten had been promised for tonight… it might not be much good, but Schultz wasn't the choosy type. Food was food. That plus a nice big bowl of potato soup and a few slices of pumpernickel would tide him over for a while... not until morning, of course, but at least until ten o'clock.

He was never particularly pleased to see one of the prisoners looking for him, and even less so when he was just about at the end of his guard duty and looking forward to a hot meal. When Kinch trotted up, what it meant to Schultz was that he could be all but positive that he wasn't going to be on time for dinner.

"Hey, Schultz!"

"Oh, what do you want?" he grumbled.

"The Kommandant's looking all over the place for you. You better get over to his office right now."

"The Kommandant knows where I am, and I have heard no- _thing_ about him wanting to see me."

"It must've slipped his mind where to find you. There's a lot going on. Haven't you heard?"

"I do not _want_ to hear. All I want is to be right here when my relief arrives so I can be the first one in line at the mess hall. Now _you_ , back to the barracks… back-back-back-back-back!"

Kinch vaguely recalled some platitude about moving mountains. He had hoped this particular mountain would be a little easier to move. "Well, okay, but he sounded pretty mad that he couldn't find you when he needed you. I just hope you don't hear about it later on."

Schultz cringed ever so slightly at the mere thought. " _Ach du Lieber…_ "

Kinch realized he was making headway. "Just tryin' to do you a favor. Good luck." As ordered, he then headed back to the barracks without any further pressure. Sometimes it was best to plant the seed and give it a little while to germinate… or in Schultz's case "German-ate". The nagging fear of Klink's wrath would likely steer him in the desired direction in a minute or two.

By the time Kinch reached the door of Barracks Two and turned around to check, Schultz had abandoned his post and was nearly all the way to Klink's office, moving as fast as his bulk and flat feet would allow. Kinch allowed himself a brief moment of self-satisfaction. He'd done it. Just exactly as he'd learned from that master of Kraut psychology, Colonel Robert E. Hogan.

Now all they had to do was find out where exactly Colonel Hogan _was._

oo 0 oo

Schultz knocked on the door of Klink's inner office and waited for acknowledgement. When it wasn't forthcoming, he tried again. At the point where Klink's irritated voice finally barked "Come!", he pushed the door open very slowly, with trepidation, almost as if he half-expected something to be hurled at his head from halfway across the room. He didn't _want_ to go in, but he'd come this far and he couldn't think of any way out of it.

"You wished to see me, Herr Kommandant."

"Why should _I_ wish to see _you?_ Don't you think I've had more than enough trouble today?"

Reprieved. Schultz took a step backwards. "I must have misunderstood."

"No, stay!"

Reprieve cancelled. No sauerbraten for him tonight. " _Jawohl._ " He stood at attention and waited for the next confusing, contradictory command his superior might be about to throw at him.

"Schultz, as you are no doubt already aware, there was an… incident… in town today, involving Colonel Hogan."

Back in the barracks, the men clustered around the coffee pot shoulder to shoulder, determined not to miss a single word.

 _"Colonel Hogan is not_ _supposed_ _to be in_ _town_ _, Herr Kommandant!"_

"That, we know," Newkirk grumbled. "Tell us somethin' we _don't_ know!"

 _"Thank you, Schultz, for clarifying that for me. But it seems that Colonel Hogan does not appear to care very much about where he is supposed to be and what he is supposed to be doing. And this is not the first time he has been the cause of certain… irregularities. This time, unfortunately for him, the Gestapo became involved and the punishment was extremely severe."_

 _"No movie on Saturday night?"_ It sounded like Schultz hardly dared suggest the dire possibility.

 _"Schultz, as you and I speak, Colonel Hogan is on his way to a prisoner of war camp on the Italian coast. The matter is entirely out of my hands. He is to be stricken from roll call, his quarters are to be cleared out, and his personal effects are to be collected and shipped to him as soon as possible. I'm putting you in charge of that."_

There were no shouts of protest from the cluster of men standing around the coffee pot. They were too shocked to utter a single syllable. Then came denial… no, they couldn't possibly have heard correctly. And then, each of them looked around to gauge the expressions on the faces of the others. That told the whole story. They _had_ heard right. Everyone else had heard the same thing. The colonel wasn't coming back… tonight, or any other.

oo 0 oo

Hogan's day might have started its descent towards disaster outside the fruit store back in Hammelburg, but then leaving Gestapo headquarters in the back of a truck like an overnight bag and transported over the miles of conjoined potholes that the Germans optimistically called an autobahn had reduced his morale still further. By the time he got to the train station in the rapidly waning late-spring twilight, he wasn't sure how much lower it could go. _At least the boys got away,_ he kept reminding himself. They and the film must be safely back at camp. It was something. It would have to do, at least for the time being.

The troop train was filled almost to bursting with young soldiers on their way to one of any number of fronts, but a small corner at the very back of the last car had been reserved for him and the Gestapo guard assigned to accompany him. He would have vastly preferred the club car on the commuter train out of Bridgeport Connecticut. No such luck.

Could things _get_ any worse? Well, sure… if the Underground decided to blow this train up on its way to wherever it was going without knowing he was aboard, and with his recent run of rotten luck he wouldn't have said it was out of the question. But at least he could be pretty sure his own men were way too preoccupied to be out on the tracks with TNT tonight. That would be a nasty bit of irony he would like to avoid.

The guard gestured with the end of his rifle at the place he wanted his charge to occupy, and Hogan was so fed up that he didn't even consider trying to offer up any wisecracks. He dropped exhausted into the seat and decided to be grateful that he was getting one: there were plenty of freight cars on this train as well, and Burkhalter and Hochstetter could easily have decided to let him ride baggage-class all the way to Italy.

The train jolted backward slightly with a thump when the brakes unlocked, then slowly lurched forward to begin the first leg of the journey. In the fading daylight that remained, Hogan watched the familiar sights of the town melt away, one by one… the weathervane on top of the _rathaus,_ the water tower, the church steeple.

 _Arrivederci,_ Hammelburg.


	4. Chapter 4

It took a lot to make the barracks quiet. This was a lot. Still trying to absorb everything they'd just heard and try to make some sense of it, the men sat around the table deep in thought. And a little anger. And a lot of guilt. Here they all sat safe at camp, but the colonel was on his way to a for-real POW camp somewhere. And why? Because they'd managed to blow a perfectly good mission at the very last moment it could have been blown. Overconfidence. Carelessness. They'd all been guilty of it before, more than once, but luck had always seen them through until now.

Things _could_ go wrong. They _weren't_ immune. There was such a thing as getting bitten. It _could_ happen and now it _had_ happened. So what were they going to do about it? Nobody knew where to begin.

When Schultz entered carrying an empty Red Cross box, the silence fractured.

"Push off!" Newkirk snapped, not caring that he wasn't supposed to know why the sergeant was there in the first place.

"What do you want, Schultz?" Kinch sounded tired and edgy, but he had enough left in him to play the game they still had to play. At least for the time being.

"I…" Schultz looked at each one of the men in turn. "I was…"

Well, Schultz wasn't enjoying this either. He was in the extremely awkward position of thinking that he was the only one who knew what was going on, and now he thought he was going to have to be the one to break it to the rest of them. It was a bad situation for the basically good-natured guard to be in, and in spite of their general foul temper at the moment, it was hard not to feel a little sorry for him. He didn't like this any better than the rest of them did, and it hadn't been his fault.

Which was more than they could say for themselves.

"We know, Schultz," LeBeau said quietly. "One of the other guards already talked." It was a lie, but so what? Schultz wouldn't question it, it would let him off the hook, and the sooner he was out of here the sooner the rest of them could start to figure out what they were going to do next.

Schultz could not possibly have been more relieved. "I'm so glad… oh _,_ I mean, _not_ about _that!_ "

"It's okay," Carter nodded. "We know what you meant."

"Such a _terrible_ thing."

Newkirk started to pull the empty box out of his hands. "Give it 'ere."

"But the Kommandant gave me specific orders to…" One good look at Newkirk's face, then a glance at all the others, and he wisely stopped right there. Schultz made it a policy to take his orders from whoever it seemed a good idea to agree with at the time, according to his assessment of his own best interests, and in these barracks Klink's authority wasn't always absolute. Right now it seemed best to defer to the British corporal, a man he would have outranked even if they'd been in the same army. He let go of the box. "I'll come back later."

"Don't hurry."

Well, it solved the problem of what to do next, at least. The colonel was going to be needing his gear wherever he ended up. If they left it too long, it was certain Klink would send in someone less easily put off than Schultz, and then they'd all have something else to be sorry for. No, Colonel Hogan's personal effects needed to be seen to by his own men, not by some wind-up Kraut following orders. They might have screwed up plenty already, but they weren't going to foul _that_ up. Box in hand, they moved as one towards the colonel's office. Had to be done.

Kinch was the one who took the colonel's shaving kit off the shelf where it had sat for so long and placed it carefully in the box. That left a lot of room. "What else?" he asked.

LeBeau opened the door of the locker that stood against the wall and removed the folded pajamas and dressing gown from the top shelf. "There's this."

It still didn't look like much, even after they added a few books and photos, but then most of what Colonel Hogan had been to this outfit wouldn't go into a box. He was more than a few personal effects. He was the heart and soul of this operation, and you couldn't just fold that up and close the lid on it.

"It don't look right," Newkirk shook his head.

"Klink took his uniform this afternoon. This is it."

"Here." Carter picked up a somewhat battered white porcelain shaving mug and added it to the other items. "He likes this one… says the chip on the handle is right where he puts his thumb." Then a few seconds later he blurted out, "Go on, say it! _I_ did it, I forgot my papers back at camp, it was my idea to go into the fruit store, and look what happened!"

"It ain't your fault, Andrew," Newkirk said. "No more'n it is mine… I should've been able to outthink them two goons. I dunno what's wrong with me."

"It's my fault too," LeBeau added. "I followed that _belle fille_ into Max's. I should have told Carter not to spoil his dinner and that we needed to keep moving."

"Okay," Kinch nodded. "And it's _my_ fault for not even being there when you guys ran into trouble. So now we're even."

"You can't go into town."

"Right, I figured that out a long time ago. And a fat lot of good I can do if I'm stuck here when something goes haywire on the outside. Maybe I could have helped out and maybe not, but we'll never know because I can't even get out and _try._ So there's plenty of blame to go around on this one, but we've gotta get past it. We've got a job to do."

"There's these as well." Newkirk held up two pair of socks. One was dark brown and well-worn in the toes and heels. One was red, white and blue and had never been on anybody's feet. There was a good reason for that. One of those garish socks was knitted with special wire, not wool. "One pair for the colonel and one for us… ours is from Aunt Alice."

"I guess it might as well be now." Kinch added the brown socks to the box and closed the flaps on the top. "Okay. Let's go see what Aunt Alice wants us to do."

oo 0 oo

The Aunt Alice communication code was one of the more elaborate ones they had put to use during their time at Stalag 13. The loose end of the sock was loaded onto an empty spool in the wire recorder/player, then the rest of the knitwear was placed on a wooden dowel and began to spin when the power switch was activated, slowly unraveling it. A voice recording then played over the small speaker as the special fiber passed through the machinery. Those socks had been here for a long time, and the few men who knew about them had hoped they would still be sitting there at the end of the war.

 _"So…"_ Colonel Hogan's voice came over the tinny speaker. _"You guys have to ask Aunt Alice. I guess that means we came to an unplanned parting of the ways."_

As hard as this message was for them to hear, they did have to remind themselves that it could have been a whole lot worse. At least the colonel was alive, and when he'd made this recording so long ago, there was no way he could have known if they'd have to listen to it one day because he'd been killed on a mission. Apparently that was exactly what he'd been thinking when he made the recording, though.

 _"If I'm… well, if I'm not coming home… London will decide whether to send in a new commanding officer or to fold up the operation at Stalag 13. I hope it won't come to that, but if the escape and sabotage operations have been compromised, never mind calling London… get everybody out, and get started on the escape route yourselves. But if there's time… if you're sure you're all secure… then radio London and ask for instructions. They may want to send some reinforcements."_

"A new CO?" Carter frowned.

"I don't like the sound of that," Newkirk shook his head. "Look what happened the last time… we ended up with that bleedin' tosspot Crittendon who almost got us all killed."

 _"In the meantime,"_ Hogan's voice continued, as the sock ran out of red and started unraveling white, _"until London says otherwise, Kinch is in charge. Carter, I know you've got a higher grade, but this is best for the outfit."_

"I don't want it," Carter shook his head. "If it was up to me I'd pick Kinch too."

The weight that had planted itself firmly between Kinch's shoulder blades right after he'd found out what had happened in town that afternoon suddenly got about fifty pounds heavier, but he did his best not to let it show. He couldn't really say this had blindsided him; someone had to take the acting command position, and he'd been the unofficial second in this operation for a long time. Still, having the colonel formally pass the torch to him made it more intimidating… more permanent… than it had ever been before. "Swell…" he said, more or less under his breath and with very little enthusiasm.

 _"You'll do fine."_

How well Hogan knew his own men. Kinch couldn't help chuckling. "Thanks, Colonel. I sure hope so."

"You'll _have_ to do better than Crittendon," Carter assured him.

" _Schultzie_ could do better than Crittendon," Newkirk chimed in. "If London sends _him_ back in here you'll see me go AWOL before he's even begun to unpack."

 _"There's not much more I can say, I guess. I don't have to tell you guys what to do because you already know. Nobody could do it better."_

"I know where we can get good odds against that right now," LeBeau said grimly.

 _"I wish it could have ended differently."_ The white thread ran out and the blue began. The sock was almost gone. _"If you're still listening, I guess the Krauts aren't beating on the door yet. Watch your backs. Don't take chances. If things are too hot right now, let 'em die down a little before you take on any new assignments. And… it was a privilege working with you. All of you."_

The wire ran out. The now-full take-up spool spun freely with no resistance. The sock was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Two days later, off the western coast of Italy**

Hogan was jolted awake by a combination of the sudden halting of the truck and the sharp squeal of brakes that badly needed adjustment. The second thing he heard were powerful waves breaking on rocks. Even only half-awake, he figured it probably wasn't the Riviera.

The troop train had dropped him off at a side switch somewhere south of the Italian Alps the day before, and then continued on its way to the Eastern Front with the fresh influx of young soldiers, and a new guard in the uniform of the _Regio Esercito_ had been waiting to take over from his Gestapo shadow. Then it had been into the back of a canopy truck for the remainder of the trip. He had no clear idea where he was, although his watch told him how much time had passed. For the past half day the hills had been low and rolling, not the steep switchbacks of the mountains they'd come through the day before.

When you could _feel_ distance, you'd traveled a long way. Everything felt different here. The air was warmer, moister, and scented with salt. He shrugged out of his flight jacket, realizing it was far too warm for leather. It felt like a different planet altogether.

And they spoke a different language on this planet. He could hear shouts coming from outside, in Italian. Well, this was a kick in the head… he'd gone to all that trouble to learn enough German to get by on his assignment at Stalag 13, and now it wasn't going to be any use to him at all. His Italian was severely limited: 'spaghetti', 'pizza', and 'Fiat' was about the extent of his vocabulary. Now he wished he'd spent more time with Garlotti back at Stalag 13, or maybe been pen-pals with Major Bonacelli. He sure didn't like the idea of so much going on around him that he couldn't even begin to understand.

But in spite of the fact that he didn't get a word of what was being said, he didn't have to guess that they wanted him to get out of the truck: the guard spoke the international language of high-caliber weapons and made his request crystal clear. Hogan obliged, with some difficulty due to the leg irons he'd been sporting since being offloaded from the troop train. He'd given it a couple of half-hearted tries while the guard was dozing, but he hadn't been able to pick the heavy locks for any try at an escape. If Newkirk were here, he'd have had the hasps open in a heartbeat and been looking for an encore. Well... Newkirk _wasn't_ here, and neither was anybody else. Like it or not... and he _didn't..._ Hogan was on his own now.

The guard propelled him in the direction of the water's edge, and he obliged that unspoken request as well, shuffling along and making a rhythmic clanking sound, carrying his jacket. They were headed towards a small dock in a more sheltered part of the cove, away from the rocks. A launch was waiting. Hogan cast his eyes out across the water towards the horizon.

So that was Castel Fiocco. He hadn't really known what to try and imagine from the little General Burkhalter had told him back in Major Hochstetter's office… the words "Italy" and "island" had conjured up some travel-poster-type images in his mind which he was pretty sure wouldn't turn out to be accurate, since few prisons ever made it onto vacation lithographs. The small island stood out from the sea that surrounded it primarily because of two imposing structures, one a lighthouse and the other the Castel itself. _Crazy place to put a castle_ , he mused. The lighthouse made sense; any ship accidentally veering too close to this rough coastline would turn itself into scrambled eggs before you could say _Santa Lucia,_ but who would want to put a castle out there?

The guard gestured to the launch, and Hogan, with no better ideas of his own, managed to get himself over the gunwale in spite of the leg irons. He was less than enthusiastic when the guard immediately padlocked the chain between his ankles to a heavy iron ring bolted to the bottom of the small craft. The sea looked pretty choppy, and if this thing took on water or turned over, he wasn't going to be able to do much about it. "No escapes", Burkhalter had assured him. With precautions like this, it was no wonder. He couldn't help a fleeting thought as to how many prisoners had never even made it to the island, but had rather met their fate in the foaming sea only halfway to their intended destination.

He scanned the few items in the boat, hoping to spot a life preserver. There was one... old and mildewed, as if it had spent too much time in the water already, and the name of the boat was barely legible: _Gioia._ Joy? Not here; none that he'd been able to discern so far. That flimsy half-rotted thing wasn't going to do him any good at all, even if he wasn't chained to the boat, so he decided to focus on hoping the launch made it to the island in one piece. After that... well, after that he'd just have to see what happened next.

Almost twenty harrowing minutes later, some of them spent with the small boat struggling sideways against the incoming tide as the undersized outboard motor proved it was not really a match for the strong currents it was being forced to reckon with, the launch approached what looked to be the island's only dock, where a man appeared out of the mist ready to catch the mooring line and loop it around one of the pilings. The lock shackling Hogan to the bottom of the boat was removed, but not the leg irons. He made it up the rickety gangway and paused at the top to take his first good look at the Castel Fiocco, craning his neck to look all the way up to the highest turret.

That was the last thing he saw before a black canvas sack was jammed over his head by the man who had just tied off the launch. "Hey!"

As Klink might have said, "your protest has been noted". That unexpected action was then followed by an equally rude shove that almost knocked him off his feet instead of starting him on his way. More of the "special security" General Burkhalter had boasted about, no doubt. If he couldn't see where he was going when he went in, he sure wouldn't be in a very good position to figure out how to get _out_. Grudgingly, Hogan conceded that the Axis might actually be getting better at this POW-camp stuff. Compared to this place, Stalag 13 was so poorly designed that getting in and out was child's play, being right on a main road and a mere stone's throw from the cover of thick woods. Even if Klink had ever thought to use blind-man's-bluff to disorient incoming prisoners it wouldn't have mattered; that place was a wide-open book.

Hogan scuffed along on a more-or-less level gravel path, with guidance from an occasional impatient shove to alter his direction, until he heard a heavy iron gate in front of him creak open. The noisiest hinge was well above his head. He didn't have to see it to realize that he was about to enter a very impressive fortress.

Home sweet home.

oo 0 oo

Back at Stalag 13, the men had stalled, talked it over, slept on it, thought about it some more, put it off as long as possible... then they did exactly what Hogan had told them to do on the Aunt Alice sock, and radioed London for instructions. It hadn't felt right to even consider it at first, as if they were giving up too soon, too easily. They couldn't just call and order a new CO like ordering a pizza back home. But eventually the reality of their situation set in and they all agreed it had to be done. They didn't have to like it.

Kinch gripped the microphone a little more tightly than usual as he raised the antenna with the other hand. This was one radio transmission he was definitely _not_ looking forward to. At his side were Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau, none of them eager for what was about to happen but there to back Kinch up nonetheless. "Papa Bear calling Goldilocks... Papa Bear calling Goldilocks... come in, Goldilocks."

" _Goldilocks here_ ," a heavily-accented British voice replied. " _Read you loud and clear, Papa Bear._ "

"We've... uh..." Kinch searched for the words to continue. _Here goes nothing_ just wasn't going to cut it under the circumstances, but that was what kept running through his mind. They'd lost their colonel, not their library card. "We've got a problem here, Goldilocks. The colonel was transferred out two days ago."

The silence on the other end could have been a couple of things... a bad connection, a blown speaker. But in another moment they knew exactly what it was: utter shock and disbelief. " _Say_ _again_ _, Papa Bear_?"

"Repeat, colonel has been transferred... no longer located at Three Bears' House. We were advised to contact you to request further instructions."

" _I'd_ _instruct_ _you to see about getting him back where he belongs, and sharpish!_ "

"No can do, Goldilocks." Didn't London think they _would_ have if they _could_ have? Sometimes Goldilocks had a pretty thick head under all those curls. "By the time we got the word he was already gone."

" _Where_ _has he been transferred_?"

And now for the next thing that was difficult to admit. "We were hoping you could give us a hand with that... we have no access to the official paperwork. All we know is that it's some kind of special camp off the coast of Italy." He paused. "We can't get him back but we need to make sure he's okay."

Another loaded pause on Goldilocks' end, as the situation sunk in. " _I'll get back to you, Papa Bear. In the meantime, is your operation still up and running?_ "

Wasn't that up to Goldilocks? But Kinch wasn't going to push his luck. "Affirmative. See no reason we can't continue to operate."

" _Well, that's something, at least. We need you for an urgent mission right away, top priority._ "

"Everythin's always 'top priority', you notice?" Newkirk asided to Carter and LeBeau. "There ain't nothin' more top priority than what Kinch just told 'em."

If London had overheard their native son grousing about their priorities, the voice gave no indication. " _Need you to re-send film of updated anti-aircraft batteries at Hammelburg_."

"What do you mean, re-send it?" Now it was Kinch's turn to sound unpleasantly surprised. "We put it on the courier plane the night before last, on schedule, as ordered."

" _Courier plane shot down over the English Channel... the pilot was picked up by a motor torpedo boat but the cargo was lost. Urgent that we obtain photographs of those installments immediately_."

"That isn't _our_ fault," Carter said to Newkirk and LeBeau. "We did our part, and we sure didn't shoot the plane down."

" _Updated anti-aircraft batteries at Calais are identical to those at Hammelburg_." Nowthe London voice sounded peeved. " _We do_ _know_ _who shot our plane down, Papa Bear. Would very much like to avoid it happening again, if it's all right with you_."

Carter went a bit crimson with embarrassment. "Uh... sure, it's fine with me."

" _So_ _glad_." Goldilocks' voice dripped with sarcasm.

"We'll see what we can do, Goldilocks," Kinch stepped in. "Papa Bear out."

"We're starting out very well," LeBeau said, carefully waiting until he was sure the connection had been broken, since he had no desire to be the next one to try Goldilocks' patience that evening. "We have no _colonel,_ London is already mad at us, the film of the anti-aircraft installment that the _colonel_ gave himself up to protect is on the bottom of the English Channel, and they want _us_ to replace it."

"Immediately," Newkirk chimed in. "You remember that part of it, right? _Immediately._ "

This was the point where Colonel Hogan usually spoke up to say that he had an idea, or that he was planning to get one, or that he wasn't really sure exactly what they were going to do but they were going to start something and play it by ear. There was nothing but silence for a few seconds.

Then Kinch spoke. "I guess we better get busy".


	6. Chapter 6

The black canvas sack was removed from Hogan's head with one swift, violent yank. For a moment he was afraid some of his scalp had gone along with it, but then the restored ability to see his surroundings captured the bulk of his attention. The room was large and the walls were medium-gray stone. The only light came from the high windows on one wall, and filtered through the clinging mist outside it didn't amount to much, just enough to make the four corners of the room and its contents visible enough not to trip over anything. Not that there was all that much in the way. The sparse contents consisted of a desk, a chair, and a Luftwaffe officer. After two days traveling through the Italian Alps without understanding more than a couple of overheard words here and there, Hogan felt almost glad to see the familiar uniform. Better the devil you know, after all. "I guess I should introduce myself," he began, gently testing the waters. What would fly here, and how much of it? He wasn't in the mood to start off by the book; it seemed like a better idea to find out from the get-go exactly how this place worked.

"No need. You are Hogan, Robert E., colonel, United States Army Air Corps." This colonel was a little shorter and wider than Klink, and what hair he had was only on the very top of his head, leaving the sides and back shaved down to the skin. Basically, he had hair where Klink didn't, and no hair where Klink did. Hogan, now starting to wonder if the long rough journey might have made him a little bit punchy, found himself almost amused enough by the irony to chuckle. _The un-Klink._

"Right you are," he agreed. "But I didn't catch _your_ name."

"I am Kommandant Ferdinand Schreiner."

"I hate to bring this up, but I think one of us is lost... they told me I was going to Italy when I booked this tour, and somehow you don't look Italian to me."

Schreiner walked slowly around his desk until he stood almost toe-to-toe with Hogan and then suddenly lifted his right hand out to the side, shoulder-high. _Okay_ , Hogan thought... _so much for testing the water_... was just that little bit of insolence enough to provoke the kommandant into a display of force? His own hands were still manacled; there would be little he could do to defend himself if the German decided to play a little handball with his head.

But Schreiner only tightened his lips as he gauged Hogan's reaction to the raised hand... really amounting only to a sideways flick of his eyes so he could keep tabs on it. There was no recoil, no obvious fear. "You are either a particularly soft man or a particularly stupid one," Schreiner informed him. "You do not react to a threat?"

"I do, when I'm sure there is one. But I think you're just getting warmed up."

"We will soon find out." Schreiner nodded to the guard who had removed Hogan's mask and still stood nearby. "You may admit Group Captain Robinson."

The Allied officer who joined them in a moment looked to be about ten years Hogan's senior; a self-assured type who seemed to feel, if not at home, at least quite confident in this milieu, as if he'd done it all ninety-nine times already and this would make an even hundred. He saluted Schreiner, but Schreiner didn't bother acknowledging. "Group Captain Robinson reporting as ordered, Herr Kommandant."

"This is Colonel Hogan," Schreiner said simply. "You may familiarize him with the accommodations." Then he motioned to the guard again, who immediately began removing Hogan's hand and leg shackles.

Was that it? No threats? No boasting about the impossibility of escape? No explanation even of why a German officer was running this out-of-the-way tourist trap in the first place? Schreiner was obviously a man of few words; yet another contrast with Klink, whose infamous long-winded speeches had left many a new prisoner scratching his head and wondering what kind of a crazy place he'd just been offloaded into.

Well, when in Rome... or at least within spitting distance. Hogan followed Robinson, gladder than he could say to finally be able to walk without heavy chains biting into his ankles, out into the corridor.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" Hogan ventured when the heavy door had closed behind them.

"Schreiner? No. More of an action man."

"I guess I should be concerned."

"I guess you should. Don't mean to take the mickey, at least 'til you've had more of a chance to get used to the place, but it pays to at least act like you respect authority 'round here. I'll let you make up your own mind about it; I've said my piece." He extended his hand and Hogan took it. "Freddy Robinson, currently the chair of the welcoming committee and senior POW."

"Robert Hogan. Where I come from, that's my line."

"Well, you'll soon get used to it."

Would he? He was already feeling off-balance in these new surroundings, and now to have Robinson practically take him under wing wasn't something he was used to. "Looks like I'll have plenty of time for that."

"I'm afraid so, old boy. Which stalag did you come from? I'm out of Four, Twelve, Five and Ten, in that order, which irked the Gerries into sending me here in the first place. But that's nothing compared to what you'll hear from some of the chaps you'll be meeting soon."

"I come from Stalag Thirteen."

"Old Lucky Thirteen, eh?"

Hogan felt what he almost thought was a pang of nostalgia. No... couldn't be... he just hadn't eaten since yesterday; that had to be it. "I used to think so."

"How many escapes?"

That was a tough one. Would that include the several-hundred-and-one times he'd been outside the wire for various reasons, the couple of trips to Paris on top of Klink's staff car, the occasional quick hops to London and back courtesy of the RAF? What would Robinson consider an 'escape', technically? "I kinda lost count," was his final decision on a reply.

"No matter. Here it's easy to keep track. We all count zero."

oo 0 oo

The men stood in formation in front of Barracks Two, listening to Schultz count to fourteen. _Only_ fourteen. That was the second rude reminder they'd had in the past hour. The first one had been when Colonel Hogan's former quarters had been rather unceremoniously turned into a storage closet for maintenance supplies. From secret Allied command post to broom closet in less than half an hour. They'd done a slow burn watching it happen, but there was no point in trying to do anything about it, except to make sure their coffee pot listening device was safely stowed away in the main barracks.

"There's one good thing about the call to London," LeBeau said quietly.

"Was that the same call to London the rest of us heard?" Newkirk asked. "I must've missed the good part. It all sounded right lousy to me."

"At least they didn't want to send us a new _colonel_."

"Not yet, maybe." Kinch stopped talking when Schultz passed, gave him time to step away from the formation, and then continued. "They sure don't sound any too pleased with us. Like maybe they're thinking we need all the help we can get, including a new CO."

"You've already heard my thoughts on Crittendon," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, and I wish you'd stop saying his name. It's giving me the willies."

"Well, we'll just show London, is all," Carter spoke up. "We'll get more pictures of those AA guns in Hammelburg like they want, and send 'em off to London."

"I'm glad you've figured out a way to do that, because I haven't."

Talking in the ranks came to a halt when Klink exited the K _ommandantur_ to join them. "Report!" he called to Schultz.

Schultz couldn't help tipping one more glance toward the far end of the two ranks of men, where an empty spot on the barren ground was very conspicuous just by being about four square feet of nothing. "All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant... I suppose."

It _was_ odd not to see Hogan's cocky grin down there on the end, Klink had to admit, but after the initial surprise of the unplanned transfer had begun to wear off, he had actually found himself sleeping a little better at night. No Hogan meant no prisoners barging into his office whenever they felt like it, no double-talk, no thinly-veiled insolence, and most of all, no ringleader mounting an increasing danger of escape to ruin his perfect record. General Burkhalter and Major Hochstetter had done him a favor, at that. He didn't miss Hogan any more than he missed his last toothache. The fact that the prisoners obviously _did_ meant only one thing: as thoroughly cowed as he was convinced they had been before, they must be completely broken in spirit now. Therefore, as Kommandant of Stalag 13, there was only one logical thing for him to do.

Rub it in some more.

"Prisoners," he began. "With Colonel Hogan's sudden departure..." Here he paused for a few seconds so he could enjoy the expressions of dismay, concern, and outright offense that his barbed reminder had produced. "I have decided to appoint a new representative to act as a liaison between the POWs and myself. The man with the highest rank among you will be the new senior POW, and I have asked Sergeant Schultz to examine the camp records to determine who that man is."

"Let's have a general election instead," Newkirk threw out in jest. "I'll throw me hat in the ring, and my first campaign promise is to spruce up the camp. Instead of drawin' new mustaches on all the pictures of Hitler like we been doin', I'll erase 'em instead."

The men responded with the usual laughter that resulted when anyone disrupted the order expected during roll call, and Schultz remembered himself just in time to suppress a chuckle of his own and instead motion sternly for the prisoners to quiet down and pay respectful attention. Erasing the _Führer's_ mustache... _sehr witzig._

"Thank you, Corporal," Klink replied icily. "But we'll do this my way. The new senior POW is..." He reached out a gloved hand towards Schultz, who fumbled in his pocket for a few seconds in search of the slip of paper he'd written it on.

"I can hardly stand the suspense," LeBeau exclaimed with utterly false excitement.

"Yeah, it's just like the Academy Awards," Kinch added.

Finally Schultz located his note and handed the somewhat crumpled scrap of paper to the kommandant, who gave it a disapproving look and smoothed it out a bit so he'd be able to read it.

"Drum roll, please!" Garlotti called out from the back row.

"Sergeant Carter!" Klink sounded satisfied in the result of his new initiative for only a moment, then after hearing his own voice speak the name looked at the piece of paper again as if he was hoping he'd read it wrong.

Carter appeared equally dismayed, if not even a little bit more. " _Me_?"

"Schultz... are you _sure_?" Klink cringed. "We don't have a major at the moment... or even a second lieutenant... _anyone_?"

" _Nein,_ Herr Kommandant. Sergeant Carter is the highest ranking prisoner in the camp."

"Can I quit? Retire? Abdicate? _Anything_?" Carter demanded.

Klink gave him a withering glance as he crumpled the paper up in his fist. " _Dis_ -missed!"

"I just won't do it, that's all," Carter blurted out as the formation broke up and his friends gathered around him. "He can't make me. I just won't."

"Take it easy, Andrew," Kinch told him. "It might not be that bad."

"Oh, no? _You_ try having to talk to Klink every day and see how _you_ like it! Colonel Hogan has to be the bravest man I ever met!"

"We might be able to think of a way to turn it to our advantage. Do the best you can and we'll see how it goes."

"Klink doesn't like it either," LeBeau reminded him.

"Yeah, maybe he'll let you off the hook," Newkirk added.

"Well, what do I _do_?"

"Just talk to 'im the way you talk to us and he'll likely throw you outta his office for good inside of the first ten minutes. Congratulations, Sergeant Carter." It was the first time in the history of Stalag 13 that Newkirk had ever acknowledged that Carter's rank was higher than his own, and although he tried his best he wasn't able to keep a straight face. "Blimey," he laughed, "that one nearly finished me off. I think I better go have a lie-down."

For his part, Carter was unable to find the humor in it. "Thanks a _lot,_ pal."


	7. Chapter 7

The interior of the castel struck Hogan as about one part horror movie, two parts rabbit warren. Robinson, however, seemed to know exactly where he was headed. Hogan was glad of it – he himself was completely disoriented thanks to the blindfolding on the way in, exactly the result it had been designed to produce. There were windows on one side of some of the corridors, but they were too high to reveal anything other than patches of sky. He had a rough idea of how far the island was from the shore, but that was all. And he knew he was west of the mainland. Big fat lot of good that was likely to do him.

 _No_. He caught himself and mentally backed up a few paces. He couldn't afford to start thinking that way. It was early days. This was a big pill to swallow, sure… but he needed to find ways to cut it up into more manageable pieces, not simply let it choke him. This place might be a lot of things, but one thing it probably _wasn't_ was what the Germans kept telling him it was: an absolute dead-end with no possible chance for escape.

He listened to Robinson's footfalls on the stone floor just ahead of him, and then his own trudging along behind. Discouraging. But this was exactly what those same feet would sound like if they were headed out the front gate, too… and just as soon as he could, Hogan planned to set himself to finding a way out that front gate and then across the border to Switzerland, ultimately finding a way to get back to active duty. He was _not_ planning to spend the rest of the war in this dump, sitting around waiting for the Allies to liberate him. He was determined that Colonel R.E. Hogan wasn't washed up yet, and that anybody who had already counted him out had another thought coming: Burkhalter, Hochstetter, Schreiner, the whole bunch.

He tried to notice as many details as possible as they walked. Anything might come in handy later on. There were guards at specific points along the corridor. All were armed with rifles tipped with bayonets, pistols in a holster at their hips, and what was commonly known in the states as a billy club. He wondered how often those items came out for target practice.

He decided to start compiling a list of general questions for Robinson later on when they were in a more private location. Just because he didn't speak Italian was no reason to assume these guards didn't speak at least rudimentary English. It was a special prison, so it stood to reason these might be special guards. He couldn't afford to get careless. He didn't even really yet know that he could trust Robinson. For that matter, Robinson shouldn't be so sure that he could trust Hogan.

There were really only four people in this war Hogan _did_ trust, one hundred percent, all the way, every time. And they weren't here.

After what felt like the approximate equivalent of wandering in the desert for forty years, Robinson finally led Hogan through a wide stone archway guarded by not one, but two Italian enlisted men. It led outside… well, as close to outside as Hogan figured he was likely to get, anyway. The enclosed courtyard was ringed by a massive stone-block wall he estimated to be twenty feet high; the top edge crowned with multiple loose coils of barbed wire.

"Exercise yard," Robinson explained.

There was hardly anything like real exercising going on. Approximately fifty men, by Hogan's best initial estimate, walked around the perimeter of the yard at the pace one might push a shopping cart. No one spoke. Common sense told Hogan that he would be better off going with established practice, but as the new man he figured he might as well make a few deliberate mistakes to feel things out a bit. "Training for the Olympics?"

"All prisoners have one hour of exercise every day, no exceptions." That was the official line, no doubt, but Robinson added one aside. "If you think this looks like fun, imagine it in three straight days of rain, like we had last week."

Great. Something else to look forward to. At least at Stalag 13… and here Hogan had to catch himself, because his first thought had been "back home"… they could stay inside if it rained, and on nice days they had volleyball or a little touch football to help them work out the kinks, things that were actually _fun,_ a welcome break from the old grind. Here at Castel Fiocco, the recreation looked to be just more of the same grind, in slow motion.

"Half come out in the morning and the other half in the afternoon. You and I will join the teatime stroll."

"Can't wait." So there were about a hundred officers here. Another note for Hogan's mental file.

The two guards seemed to be getting a little antsy, as if they thought the two prisoners were lingering too long, and one of them motioned to Robinson to move back the way they had come. The group captain nodded and replied with a short " _Si, va bene_ " before leading Hogan back into the corridor.

"Do the guards speak English?" Hogan asked when they were a few paces off.

"Some probably do. But they change posts often – you're not likely to get to know much about any of them before their duty rotates elsewhere."

Too bad. That would sure prevent another Schultz, tamed and housebroken, eventually trained to sit up and beg for LeBeau's strudel. Kommandant Von Stroheim looked to be on the ball, at least about that much. "What do we do all day when we're not 'recreating'?"

"Oh, this and that. For one thing, we're all required to put in two hours of upkeep per day, either in the laundry or in the mess hall or some such."

"It's against the Geneva Convention to require officers to work."

"You'll find they don't care, I'm afraid. This isn't a regulation Luft Stalag _,_ Hogan. They don't care about a lot of things here."

"And if _I_ do?"

Robinson shrugged. "That's entirely up to Schreiner."

"As senior POW officer aren't you supposed to make sure Schreiner doesn't mistreat his prisoners?"

Robinson managed a half-smile. It was the first real facial expression Hogan had seen yet on the reserved Brit. "You're in the right place, Hogan. No question about it. All I wonder is why it took so long for you to get here."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Hogan couldn't be sure. The words were right… still, there was something disturbing about Robinson's affect, something that rang sour. "I'll do my best to make up for lost time."

"No matter how I might try to dissuade you."

"Probably."

Robinson let him have the last word on the subject. He didn't speak again until they had climbed a nearly endless flight of spiral stone steps and emerged on an upper floor lined with two things: guards and doors. "This is our barracks wing, two men to each cell."

Five doors on each side of the corridor, and a total of six armed guards: two at each end and two in the middle. Impressive. One of Burkhalter's comments had been about the guard-to-prisoner ratio, and it looked like he hadn't been exaggerating much. Six-to-twenty instead of 13's one-to-fifteen. "This place must cost the Axis a fortune in payroll."

"I suppose they find it's worth it."

"I guess so, seeing as you're all still here."

Robinson moved with calm confidence past the guards, and Hogan followed; apparently they were used to certain routine comings and goings and they didn't show much of a reaction. The ten doors were all open; apparently that was usual too. Well, it would make it much easier to keep an eye on the goings-on than the closed barracks doors at a regular Luft Stalag, when anything could be going on in there… and often was. Imagine trying to use the tunnel entrance built into Kinch and LeBeau's bunk with the Krauts having a clear view through open doors and windows all the time. Hogan was forced to acknowledge that Castel Fiocco _was_ learning from past mistakes in other camps, and the prisoners here were paying the price for it in the loss of basic human rights like privacy. Opportunities to get up to anything appeared to be few and far between.

Still, where there was a will, there was a way. And Hogan already knew he had plenty of will.

The major occupying the first room on the left nodded acknowledgement when Robinson entered with Hogan. "This is my wingman, Charlie Wood."

"Welcome aboard, Colonel Hogan," Wood replied in a smooth British inflection that immediately put Hogan in mind of David Niven.

Well, everyone had certainly known ahead of time that he was coming. That was interesting. They must have one heck of a camp newsletter in this place. "Thanks. Robinson's taking me on the grand tour."

Wood feigned amazement. "There's a tour? Freddy, you've been holding out on us."

"You'll see the rest in good time," Robinson finished up. "The mess hall, laundry, library… solitary…"

Wood made a _tsking_ sound and shook his head. "Don't spoil it for him, Freddy… let some of it be a surprise."

"Solitary won't be any surprise for Hogan, Charlie. Actually he seems determined to wind up there before he even gets to see the mess hall."

Hogan chuckled. "What've they got, a torture chamber?" When neither Robinson nor Wood either smiled or attempted to convince him otherwise, he shifted gears. "I get the feeling you're suggesting I should back off," Hogan ventured.

"As I said, it's entirely up to you, old chap. I've given you what I can, but I'm not your nanny. You're more or less on your own."

All three of them turned to face the doorway when a young lieutenant stuck his head in. "Pardon me, Group Captain, but… he's heading your way."

Robinson scowled and pushed his fist into his pocket. "Dash it all…"

"Sorry, sir."

"Not your fault, O'Brien." The lieutenant nodded gratefully and moved back into the hallway. "I've no idea what's to be done about him, Charlie."

Hogan was pretty sure they had moved on and were no longer discussing him. "One of the guards?"

"Worse, I'm afraid."

The man who appeared in the doorway was more than enough to strike fear into the heart of the most courageous Allied prisoner. All Hogan's bravado folded up like cheap tent in a hurricane. It _wasn't_. It _couldn't_ be.

"Hogan, old boy!" Crittendon beamed. "Heard you were coming! How awfully good to see you!"


	8. Chapter 8

Carter had been standing in front of the cracked mirror over the sink for at least five minutes, combing and re-combing his hair, straightening the necktie he had managed to scrounge up someplace. And Newkirk had had enough of it. "Are you plannin' to _talk_ to Klink, or ask him for a date?"

"Look, I don't like this one bit, okay? But my grandma always says if you're going to do something, you might as well do it right."

"I don't see what that has to do with you," LeBeau couldn't resist.

"Do I look okay?"

"I'm not sure," Kinch shook his head. "You're not really my type."

"You guys are no help at all."

"Good." Newkirk passed his well-worn deck of cards through his hands in a quick shotgun-shuffle. "That's exactly what we're aimin' for."

Carter started counting items off on his fingers. That in itself was probably not a good sign. "First, I'll ask Klink about the missing Red Cross packages."

"Second, he'll lie through his teeth about 'em."

"Then I'll ask him how come the electricity in the barracks is getting turned off an hour earlier at night."

"Daylight Saving Time, Kraut-style," Kinch put in. "He saves some dough to put in his own pocket by turning the juice off early. There's your 'why'."

"I get the feeling you don't think it's any use me going over there at all."

"That's right," LeBeau nodded. "But you're the senior POW, so off you go." He made a big show out of dusting Carter off with a dish towel, turning him all the way around, taking his own turn at straightening the necktie that looked ridiculous as an accessory for Carter's faded and patched fatigues. " _Eh bien_ … you're either ready to go see Klink, or to have your picture taken for your _grand-mère's_ Christmas present."

"Someday I'm gonna figure out what being senior POW is really good for… and then I'm really gonna give it to you guys."

A chorus of "dream on", "we'll wait", and " _on verra_ " followed him out of the barracks, and he closed the door behind him. Gee. Some pals _they_ were, kicking a guy when he was down. It really _was_ lonely at the top.

Schultz stood at the bottom of the steps to the Kommandant's office… whether he was officially posted there on guard duty or just doing a pretty good job of slacking off was hard for Carter to determine. "Hi, Schultz."

"Hi." Schultz paused, then took a second, closer look. "Are you going to church?"

"Very funny." Carter mounted the steps with a determination born of utter inability to think of any way to get out of it, and opened the door to Klink's outer office, courteously pulling off his hat as he entered… and fervently hoping it wouldn't mess up his hair.

Fraulein Hilda also needed to look twice… yes, it _was_ Carter; she reassured herself of that in a few seconds. " _Guten Tag_."

"Hi, ma'am… I'm here to see the Kommandant."

Dutifully she pressed the button on the intercom. "Herr Kommandant, Sergeant Carter is here to see you."

" _Who_?"

Another blow to Carter's already fragile ego. "Um… the senior POW… it was his idea."

"Sergeant Carter is the senior POW," Hilda dutifully relayed.

" _I'm terribly busy!_ "

"It'll only take a couple minutes," Carter assured Hilda.

She gestured to the door to Klink's inner office. "Go ahead. You might as well get it over with."

"Boy oh boy, that's what I've been telling myself all morning." Carter wrung the hat in his sweaty hands for a few seconds, then knocked politely before opening the door.

Klink looked up with a steely glare that might have frozen a lesser man in his tracks. Fortunately, Carter was a bit too focused on the task at hand to let it stop him. "Hi, Kommandant." He accompanied the overly-folksy greeting with a crisp salute a couple of seconds later, hoping to meet somewhere in the middle of accepted procedure. "If you could just spare a few minutes…"

" _What_ may I ask is so important?"

"Um… well… um…" A few more twists of his hat helped him focus. "The fellas and I were wondering… what happened to our Red Cross packages this month?"

"How should _I_ know?"

"Well… okay then… that takes care of that… and, um… we were also kinda wondering why the lights in the barracks are going off so early."

"Ah ha… you want the lights to stay on later at night so you will have more time to dig escape tunnels!"

Carter chuckled. "Oh, heck no…" That _was_ truly laughable, although Klink had no idea why. They didn't need his lights to dig tunnels. They didn't even need any more tunnels; at this point they had the approximate equivalent of the New York City subway system down there, minus the trains. "But during non-daylight hours we're supposed to have…"

" _Is_ there anything else?"

"Well, um… no, now that you mention it."

"Then _dis_ -missed!"

"Yeah… okay…" He offered another salute, grateful that the ordeal was over with. "See you tomorrow."

Klink waited until the door had closed behind Carter to resume his paperwork and mutter "Not if I see you first…"

Fraulein Hilda didn't seem terribly surprised to see him back in the outer office so soon. "How did it go?" she asked.

"Well… okay, I guess." He thought about it for a moment. He'd remembered everything he'd intended to bring up. That was good.

But… he hadn't actually gotten any answers to those questions… had he?

"I'm not sure I've got the hang of this yet," he admitted.

oo 0 oo

He was in Italy. He was in Hell. No difference between the two places, from Hogan's standpoint.

He stood in the corner of the small room Robinson had indicated would be his, arms tightly folded, contemplating his next move. There was a window... but there was also an eighty-foot drop to the ground. He was still seriously considering it.

Seated on the lower bunk, Crittendon worked at knotting sheets together, with occasional furtive glances towards the open door to ensure he wasn't being observed. Nobody seemed to care what he was up to. Nobody had been anywhere near that doorway, nobody from _either_ side, in at least a quarter of an hour. It looked like the only way to get some privacy around here was to hang around with Crittendon, since nobody else wanted to be anywhere near him. It really wasn't worth it, in Hogan's considered opinion.

"At any rate," the pompous Brit hammered on, in the middle of one of his endless stories that Hogan hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to, "there I was, free and away from Stalag 6… for the third time, as a matter of fact… but just then…"

 _Just then_. That was how it always went. Crittendon thought they were all different stories, but they always turned out exactly the same way. Any number of things could have happened _just then_ , from the guards following the sound of his elephant-like footfalls across the forest floor, to his own men deciding to turn on him and leave him as far behind as possible. Hogan had heard them all. It didn't really matter in the least which minor variation this one was. "Crittendon…"

"Yes, old boy?"

"Let's cut to the chase. How did you wind up here?"

"That's what I've just been telling you. When that rotter of a kommandant at Stalag 6 recaptured me, he actually refused to take me back to the camp. Never heard of such a thing. Have you?"

"Only once," Hogan replied bitterly. What had happened in Major Hochstetter's office just a few short days ago was still a raw wound.

"At any rate, next thing I knew, I was packed off and on my way to a dreadful Gothic pile of stones they call Schloss Colditz. Spent nearly a month holed up in there. Probably still be there, if it hadn't been for the fire."

"What fire?"

"Not my fault, of course, but there's no telling the Gerries that. Apparently they thought I'd set the kitchen ablaze as a diversion for an escape… totally accidental, naturally."

"Naturally." Most Crittendon-caused disasters were just exactly that: totally accidental. The truck complete with time bomb that he'd stolen from the armament factory and parked just outside Barracks Two… the snafu during the attempted kidnapping of Field Marshal Rommel… all totally accidental, and typically Crittendon.

"Extraordinary thing: there _was_ actually an escape attempt going on at the time. Don't know how I never heard about it."

Oh, but Hogan did. The Colditz escape crew had _intended_ to leave him in the dust. Easy. He was worse than a black cat crossing your path while you were walking under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth carrying a freshly-broken mirror and stepping on every single crack in the sidewalk. He was poison. No escape he was a part of had any chance of success, and it never took anybody very long to figure that out. "Imagine that."

"At any rate, the Gerries blamed me for the entire affair, and then they sent me here." He gave the latest knot he had tied in the sheet a firm tug to test its strength. "Hogan… you and I must talk."

"I thought we were."

"No, I mean…" He glanced toward the empty doorway. "I mean, _talk._ Absolutely _marvelous_ what they've got at Colditz. Could hardly believe my own eyes. It's…" One more look at the empty doorway, and for a change he even lowered his voice. "It's a _glider._ "

"Yeah. Uh huh."

"I _assure_ you, I am in earnest. The prisoners are constructing a two-man glider in the attic of the castle, and they intend to fly it off the roof to freedom. I swear it on the King's own life."

"Well, I don't think it's gonna do us any good here, because I doubt they'll be stopping to pick us up."

"You really _must_ take this seriously, old man. Your chaps have a remarkable operation at Stalag 13, I grant you, but even _they've_ never come up with anything as audacious as this."

Hogan wasn't so sure about that. He and the boys had dismantled, rebuilt and then flown an experimental plane out of the camp… shot off a manned rocket from the rec hall… and even gotten a courier safely out of Stalag 13 in a makeshift hot-air balloon. That sounded like a better track record than one lousy glider that was only a figment of some idiot's overactive imagination. He'd never pegged Crittendon as a drinking man, but apparently the boredom and frustration of captivity could drive almost any man to the homemade hootch eventually, judging from the wild claims he was making.

"You're making a mistake, Hogan." Another firm tug on the newest knot he'd made in the sheets. "I'll be out of here myself before much longer… always got the old thinking cap on, you know… I normally stick with the tried and true; getting ready to lower myself safely down to the ground on the next moonless night, but… by jove, a _glider_ …. just _imagine_ …"

He'd already been working overtime in the imagination department. Hogan was about to tell him that, when his next hefty pull on the knots resulted in the improvised rope coming apart in his hands like strands of overcooked spaghetti. "Blast."

Hogan nonchalantly glanced to his right, taking another good long look at the waist-high window, and then down towards the ground eighty feet below. Hmmm. Yeah… _just imagine_ … Crittendon versus gravity; and who would win _that_ contest?

He shook his head. He shouldn't even be trying to picture it, much less half wishing for it. Crittendon _was_ an ally, after all. Still…

 _Wheeeeeeeeeee… thud._

He couldn't help it… for the first time since he'd left Stalag 13, he laughed.

"I don't see what's funny," Crittendon huffed.

"I know you don't," Hogan smiled.

oo 0 oo

 _Author's note: If you don't already know about the Colditz Glider, you owe it to yourself to look it up. ;-)_


	9. Chapter 9

10:00pm: bedcheck.

10:02pm: Newkirk and LeBeau left through the emergency tunnel to go back into town and attempt to contact the same Underground operative who had given them the original film of the anti-aircraft gun emplacements, hoping he would have a sense of humor about it. Mostly they were hoping he might have kept copies, or even prints.

No such luck.

12:17 a.m., both corporals were back in the barracks sharing the details of their nightly excursion with their two superiors: Kinch, officially in charge of the operation, and Carter, officially in charge of Klink.

"What do you mean, _not there_?" Kinch asked. They were gathered around a stubby candle in what had once been Colonel Hogan's office. The light couldn't been seen from outside, and for old times' sake it felt right trying to hatch a few plots in there like they had in the good old days, even though it was now full of supply crates of various sizes and descriptions. "Where's Cinderella?"

"I mean, _not there_." Newkirk's repetition really wasn't shedding any more light on the subject than the feeble candle flame was. "No sign of Cinderella… not so much as a glass slipper."

"The hotel room has been completely cleaned out, and it looks like it happened in a hurry," LeBeau confirmed. "He's gone, all right."

"You think the Gestapo got him?" Carter asked.

"I doubt it was Prince Charmin'," Newkirk replied. "When the desk clerk turned his back for a tick I managed to get a look at the register… no forwardin' address."

"Then I guess the only way to get any more pictures of that gun emplacement is to take some ourselves."

"Oh, well, that'll be easy enough. We just gotta get past a few dozen guards armed to the teeth is all. Piece of cake."

"We've done it before," Carter put in, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone of voice.

"We wasn't so bleedin' short on luck before."

Kinch scraped his thumbnail across a random drop of candle wax that had pooled on the top of the crate. "If you've got a better idea, I'm all ears."

"As a matter of fact I have… let's all go to bed."

That sounded like a Newkirk idea, all right. Kinch inclined his wrist towards the dim flickering light of the flame to check his watch. "Okay… we'll get a few hours sack time, but then we have to come up with a plan to get close enough to those AA batteries to get some pictures good enough to do London some good on the offensive."

"Somehow I knew you were gonna say that… you sound almost like the guv'nor himself."

"Flattery won't get you out of this job, Newkirk. Hit the sack and we'll try again in the morning."

"Um…" Carter looked worried. "What time in the morning? I've gotta see Klink right after roll call."

"What's more important, Klink or them guns?" Newkirk challenged.

"Well, the guns, sure… but…"

"But what?"

"But I really want to know what happened to our Red Cross packages." You could say one thing for Carter; he sure didn't give up easily. Even when giving up made the most sense.

A few minutes later they were all in their bunks, in near-total darkness, trying to unwind enough to get to sleep. "You and them flippin' Red Cross packages…" Newkirk obviously hadn't yet officially called it a night, although he sounded exhausted.

"The guys are counting on me, y'know," Carter replied. "I don't want to let 'em down."

"Too late…"

"Well, is _that_ a nice thing to say?"

" _Enough…_ " LeBeau groaned.

Kinch lay quietly on his own bunk certain of one thing: they were about as likely to ever see those missing Red Cross packages as they were to see Cinderella alive and kicking again. That was one fairy tale that most likely wasn't going to end with 'happily ever after'. And now it was up to him to send Newkirk… or LeBeau… or Carter… or even all three… straight into the same situation that had gotten Cinderella a quick ride out of Hammelburg in something a lot less whimsical than a pumpkin coach.

There was one other thing chewing at him. They were short a man, yet there was no way he himself could get anywhere near those guns, not even in the best disguise they'd ever come up with. That was one thing Colonel Hogan maybe hadn't thought of when he'd left the Aunt Alice message that Kinch should be the man in charge: how it felt planning to send men into danger while staying well behind the firing line yourself. That was something the colonel couldn't possibly understand or know anything about. That wasn't his style. It wasn't Kinch's either. But there were some things that couldn't be changed in this war.

oo 0 oo

Hogan was starting to learn a few things about the routine at Castel Fiocco, little by little. First thing the next morning, the door of his and Crittendon's cell, which had finally been locked at bed-check, was unlocked and opened by the hall guard. Crittendon walked out without a second thought. Hogan attempted to follow, assuming that was what was expected of him, but the barrel of the gun pressed to his stomach backed him up at about the same pace he had advanced, and then the door was slammed and locked again.

Okay. So he was _learning_ the routine, but not _understanding_ it. That latter part might come with time, but he was hoping he wouldn't be here that long. He decided to make the best of it. At least it would mean a few minutes without his new roomie, and after all Crittendon's snoring the night before he was ready for a little peace and quiet.

While he was processing that perplexing turn of events, the sound of scratching in the far corner got his attention. He walked over to investigate. He cast a glance toward the still-closed door, satisfied himself that he was alone and it was safe to take a closer look, and got down on his knees and bent down as close as he could get.

"Hogan?"

The wall was talking to him. Or, more accurately, someone on the other side of the wall. "Robinson?" he whispered in reply.

"Right. We've only got a minute before the guard comes back. Just wanted to tip you off that we're not as dead in the water here as you might have initially thought." The tip of a matchstick appeared through the crack between two blocks, where the mortar between them had been removed. "Our intercom. Like it?"

"Don't the guards notice when they do cell checks?"

"We use gray wadding to fill the gap. Works like a charm. Almost all the cells have an intercom between them. We can daisy-chain messages that way."

It was primitive and no match for a good radio, but Hogan acknowledged that it was a lot better than nothing, which was what he'd assumed they had in place until just now. "I guess you've decided to take me into your confidence, then."

"Absolutely, old boy."

"If you don't mind my asking, how can you be so sure I'm on the level?"

Robinson chuckled. "I listened in on you and Rodney last night. No spy could have faked the look on your face when you first saw him… you turned positively green at the gills. Old friends, I imagine?"

"You might put it that way… but _I_ wouldn't."

"Well, no matter. He finally served a useful purpose for once… might even be the first time in his life. You're no Gerry spy, Hogan. And we need you."

"What for?"

"We've absolutely no intention of spending the rest of the war on this lump of stone; we intend to escape. We've a few tricks up our sleeves, you know. And with your record over at Thirteen, you've the ideal qualifications to join our merry band. You and your boys got my brother out of a tight spot after he was shot down last year. Without being entirely indiscreet, he hinted at your operation."

"Small world."

"That it is. I know as much as I need to know to be delighted you've joined us. But I must leave you for a bit, I'm afraid. Be missed at breakfast if I don't move along smartly."

Breakfast? So was he the only one who wasn't getting any? "Looks like I'm on the weight-loss program."

"My best guess is that you tried Schreiner on for size yesterday before I came in; am I right? Pushed a few of his buttons, did you?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"This is his way of saying thanks."

Hogan nodded. "I get it."

"See you in the yard later on."

Hogan was about to reply… some nagging habit he had of always wanting to get the last word in, and he was becoming more and more aware of his own shortcomings here, out of his usual element… but the sound of a key in the lock stopped him cold. He got to his feet and moved away from the crack between the stones before the guard entered again, this time leading not with a rifle barrel but with a battered metal tray that held only two things: a single slice of crusty dark brown bread and a dented tin cup half full of water. Hardly original, but not altogether unwelcome. It was, as the saying goes, better than nothing. And he didn't mind admitting that he was plenty hungry enough to accept it. He hadn't eaten a thing in a day and a half.

"I think I saw this in a prison movie once. You were played by Emil Jannings, and I was Paul Muni."

The guard stopped in the very act of setting the tray down on the small table near the door, turned around again and left the cell without saying a single word. _With_ the tray. Bread and water might not be very appealing, but it was _something_ … and obviously his unwise comment had just cost him even that much. Hogan wondered if the guard had even understood his words. He was beginning to draw a pretty clear bead on this Schreiner character, and it was entirely within the realm of possibility that the guard had been ordered to take the tray back no matter what Hogan might have said. Well, he'd have to remember that. And also make sure he didn't accidentally say "thanks" if he ever got another chance for something to eat.

It was going to be a long day. His first thought was that he had Schreiner to thank for it, but then stopped himself.

"Nope. My own fault. Can't even blame Crittendon this time." Hogan sat down on the bottom bunk and rested his chin on his fist. "I guess I gotta learn to keep my mouth shut."

oo 0 oo

It was the same piece of bread that was returned to him at midday. Hogan could tell because it was shaped like the state of Wisconsin... and he hadn't forgotten what it looked like because he'd been thinking of little else all morning, definitely regretting his earlier flippancy with the guard. The single slice had likely been sitting out in the hallway for hours and gone even staler than it had been first thing in the morning. It tasted like cardboard, and not even _fresh_ cardboard. But he didn't say a word, didn't even _consider_ it, until he had finished both the bread and the cup of tepid water. Okay, they'd made their point. From now on he'd be more careful... or at least more quiet. They couldn't stop him from thinking the things that were going through his head, but for the time being it was clear that he was going to have to make sure fewer of those thoughts actually made it out of his mouth. Hunger was an effective teacher.

Crittendon was by now hard at work again. He had abandoned the rope idea and was now splitting a bed slat lengthwise with a sharpened spoon handle. He'd initially tried to interest Hogan in what he was doing, but that wasn't about to happen. Hogan wasn't _that_ bored. Not yet, anyway.

"Came to me last night, actually." The Brit sawed away at the slat as he spoke, stopping every so often to pry the split a bit further apart on the grain, inch by tedious inch. "I told you of the Colditz glider. No room here for that sort of endeavor... beastly shame... still, it occurred to me that I could scale down the project a tad. I intend to build a hang glider, Hogan, and fly out of here to freedom."

If he'd been in the mood to laugh at anything, that would have done it, but after a lunch of stale bread that hadn't come anywhere close to filling his empty stomach, Hogan's sense of humor wasn't at its peak. "That's suicide," he snapped in annoyance. "And if I actually have to tell you that, I wonder why I even bother."

"One must never pass up an opportunity for escape, man! Necessity is the mother of invention, what? Everything I require is in easy reach. I've retained the bedsheets from my previous attempt which will serve as canvas to cover the wings, I have access to enough lumber to construct the framework..."

"What about access to know-how? What makes you think _you_ can build a hang-glider?"

Crittendon touched an index finger to his forehead. Hogan hated when he did that. It always led to some overstated boast of his mental ability, when it would have made much more sense to just write 'this vacant space for rent' on the area at which he was pointing instead. "Ah ha... got an answer for you on that one. I was privy to the blueprints the Colditz boys were using to construct their own bird. I'm blessed with a photographic memory and I recall every detail."

That should be good for a laugh later on, depending on how far he actually got with this project in the first place. Hogan's initial mental image was of a hang glider with the wings on backwards. "I wouldn't bet on it."

"We shall have to wait and see, then, what?"

This sitting around waiting for stuff to happen was not to Hogan's liking; not at all. He was used to being the one to set things in motion, not hanging around waiting for someone to feel like including him in a plan. He liked being in the driver's seat. He'd _earned_ it. The eagles on his collar said so.

The worst thing in the world would be if Crittendon's bone-headed idea was the best one in the whole place. And at the moment, Hogan couldn't be one hundred percent sure that wasn't the case. Robinson had intimated that he and the others had something in progress, but Hogan hadn't seen any proof of it; the only thing he had was Robinson's claim, and talk was cheap. The only visible escape attempts so far had been Crittendon's, and he was on his second one in as many days. What if... Hogan shuddered at the mere thought... what if Crittendon's lousy idea _was_ the only one anybody actually had? They might all die of old age on this rock, waiting for the war to be over.

Hogan sat down on the lower bunk.

And fell right through to the stone floor below.

"Terribly sorry," Crittendon frowned as Hogan attempted to extricate himself from the bunk that seemed to be trying to swallow him alive. "I shall have to borrow slats from some of the other chaps next time."


	10. Chapter 10

If this was what being in charge was like, Kinch was already looking forward to retirement.

"I've got good news, bad news, and more bad news," he announced to the men sitting around the table waiting for supper to be served by their resident French chef. "All from London."

"How 'bout we just take the good and you find somebody else to dump the bad on while we're eatin'?" Newkirk suggested. "Share and share alike, I say."

"Is London gonna transfer in a second lieutenant so I won't have to be senior POW?" Carter asked hopefully.

"They found Cinderella's pictures of the anti-aircraft guns floating in the channel, and they're drying them off so we don't have to bother taking new ones?" was LeBeau's sincere, if unrealistic, hope.

"Wrong on both counts. But the good news is really good." Kinch held up the paper he'd written the details of the recent radio message on, not wanting to trust his memory to such vital information. "London located Colonel Hogan, and he's all right."

The round of loudly expressed relief quickly dissipated as soon as the men realized there were more details to be had, and they wanted them. "Well?" LeBeau pressed. "Tell us everything!"

"Moving right along to the first half of the bad news, this place really is a doozy. They call it Castel Fiocco, and it sounds like the Italian version of Alcatraz, sitting out in the middle of the bay on its own island. It's where they like to stick officers who've given them too much trouble. They must think pretty highly of the colonel in their own warped little Nazi way; it's actually kind of a compliment. Only the very best… or the very worst, depending on how you look at it… get sent to Castel Fiocco."

"That's our Guv'nor," Newkirk said with a certain amount of pride. "He's probably runnin' the whole place by now… that is, if he ain't already given 'em the slip."

"Oh, he's there, all right. Unfortunately, this place is tied with Stalag 13 in the no-escapes department, and somehow I don't think it's because they've got an extensive espionage operation they're keeping under wraps like we do. Castel Fiocco really is escape-proof… or so they say."

"Well, they don't know the colonel," Carter said with absolute confidence. "He'll show 'em how to escape from an escape-proof camp, don't you worry."

"I hope you're right, because there's not much we can do to help him out from here. It sounds like half dungeon, half snake pit from the limited amount of intelligence London's got on the place, and I doubt he's enjoying his stay. But they're sure he's in one piece, and that's what really matters."

"Tell you what, that good news was so good, I'll even hear the other half of the bad," Newkirk offered. "You have the floor."

"Well, we're not making any friends in London," Kinch relayed. "They're not too happy with us right now."

"We're not bein' immediate enough for 'em?" was Newkirk's guess.

"That's pretty much the size of it, yeah. We gotta make a try for that gun emplacement. I don't think they're going to wait too much longer."

"Or what, they fire us?" LeBeau challenged. "Maybe we wouldn't mind so much. Let them try."

"I don't think that's what they have in mind. But they might court-martial us." Kinch took a seat at the table and LeBeau immediately set a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. Just like he used to do for the colonel. If it was intended to make him feel better, it fell short of the mark. "First we need an idea of the security around the anti-aircraft battery. Did you guys get any information from Cinderella when you picked up the film?"

Carter shook his head. "Colonel Hogan was the only one that went up to his hotel room. Newkirk and LeBeau were watching the lobby to make sure it wasn't a trap, and I was at the end of the hallway keeping an eye on the back stairs in case we needed to get out in a hurry. If Cinderella had anything to say about details, he didn't say it to any of us."

"So we'll have to start at square one and get the scoop for ourselves so we'll know what we're up against. That means an extra trip into town."

"Charmin'. So double the chances of gettin' caught," Newkirk observed.

"That's about what it boils down to, yeah."

"So when do we go?" Carter asked.

"London would prefer yesterday… but I guess the best we can do is tonight. We'll leave an hour after lights-out. If we're lucky, we'll be back in under three hours. We need a close look at the security around the installment and at least two good ideas about how to get around it, so everybody keep your eyes open and look for an in."

"What if there ain't one?" It would have to be Newkirk's question. The others were probably thinking it, but as usual Newkirk was the one to throw it out there for all to hear.

"Cinderella found one, didn't he?"

"You mean the Cinderella who got dragged away by the Gestapo and is probably bein' tortured right now? What are the chances that whatever way he found to get in there to take them pictures ain't gonna be buttoned up tight by the time we get there, after he tells 'em everythin' he knows?"

"If you've got any better ideas, Newkirk, I'm waiting to hear them." It was a good bet that the outspoken Brit had nothing better to offer, but it never hurt to ask. Someday he might surprise them, and come up with a well-thought-out alternative Plan B that deserved serious consideration instead of just panning everyone else's ideas. But tonight wasn't the night. "That's what I thought. So, an hour after lights-out, we go out through the emergency tunnel."

There was one thing Kinch did like about his own admittedly embryonic plan: at least he'd be able to go out with them, since it was a covert operation. They weren't supposed to be seen. If they were, it would go equally badly for all of them, and nothing else would make a bit of difference. All for one, and one for all.

oo 0 oo

Robinson had claimed his team had a plan. Hogan wanted to believe him, although he hadn't seen any evidence of one yet. He liked to think that if they really did have something in the works, they would clue him in eventually.

The next afternoon, during the slow march around the courtyard in the pouring rain, while he slogged through course and slippery black sand, trying to keep his collar pulled tightly enough around his neck to keep at least a little bit of the water on the outside of his clothes, Hogan suddenly felt himself being shoved ahead a little faster than he'd have liked, and certainly closer to the inside castel wall than he'd been planning to go. In the next moment several hands reached out from a niche in the wall and grabbed him, pulling him out of line.

 _Now_ _what did I do?_ was his first thought. He hadn't mouthed off to any guards today, and he hadn't even laid eyes on Schreiner. What was he being disciplined for? If this kind of stuff was going to happen, he at least liked to know what he'd done to merit it.

To his surprise, the hands belonged to Robinson and Wood. The next leg of his impromptu journey was crawling on his hands and knees through a hole concealed by a square metal grate that he just barely managed to squeeze through. _Maybe missing a few meals here and there wouldn't hurt,_ he thought fleetingly. There was definitely a downside to LeBeau's rich food that sometimes escaped his vigilance.

He didn't have a chance to ask where they were going. He didn't have a chance to say anything at all until they finished hauling him through the opening, and then Wood swiftly fit the grate back into place behind him on his way out as Robinson assisted Hogan to his feet. There wasn't quite enough room for the two of them to stand up all the way. One small tallow candle was the only light source, and it was burned almost down to the nub and flickering precipitously.

"Pardon the manhandling, old boy."

"Anything to get out of that rain."

"This dodge only works in the rain, actually. I'll explain. Right now just a quick word to give you the scoop on our operation."

"I'm all ears."

"Welcome to our tunnel."

It was said with a certain amount of pride. Hogan couldn't help comparing it to the Stalag 13 definition of 'tunnel', though, and it lacked ventilation as well as lighting. It was clammy and close in here, almost as damp as it was outside in the pouring rain. "Homey."

"Not a patch on the scope of your old operation, I know. Still, it will serve its purpose well enough. We'll be out of here sooner than you might think. This underground system of chambers is actually the ruins of a much earlier castle than the one upstairs… we know that thanks to my man O'Brien who's quite the student of history, but the guards don't. He told us what to look for, and by Jove here it is. We've not explored every inch yet, but it's our ticket out of here, that much we know for a fact."

"Sounds promising. What do you need me for?"

"A few of us slip down here from time to time, whenever it's possible, and do a bit of mapping and digging and so forth. O'Brien has the best idea what it is we're looking for, so we follow his lead."

"What's he found so far?"

"Think you'll be pleased. There's an ancient ventilation and drainage system that leads to the outside. It's blocked, but we've been working to clear it as time allows. This is the rainy season so that's a considerable help."

"How so?"

"Well, naturally water flows downhill, so it tells us which way to go. And your stand-in for the exercise period wouldn't be half as effective without a blanket over his extremely false head." Robinson reached into the shadows and pulled out something that, at first place, appeared to be a man. At second glance, even in the low light, it was obviously not weighty enough to be a real person, and the painted facial features were rather crude. "You see?" Then he pulled a tattered blanket over the mannequin's head, suddenly concealing a multitude of sins. "Sunny day, Tommy stay… rainy day, Tommy out to play. A couple of the fellows get into close formation and carry a Tommy upright between them, which frees up one of the boys for more productive activities in here. So the head count during the exercise period is always right, even if all the heads aren't real. A Tommy even passed at roll call once… admittedly it was quite a dark night. He'll also stand in… or rather lie in... for you on your cot as well, when the situation calls for it. He's very compact and easy to move 'round from room to room during what we call the social hour, when the doors are open and we're free to move about."

"The guards haven't caught on?"

"The weak spot as far as the guards are concerned is that they're a bit over-confident. They think they've got us over a barrel, and naturally we let them think that as much as they like."

Crafty. Hogan had to admit, he was rather impressed. This was a bold stunt that had no right to work... in fact, _wouldn't_ work in at least 90 percent of the places one might be tempted to try it out, and how many would have enough pure nerve to even try it in the first place... yet, these guys had _made_ it work. "What can I do to help?"

"Take a shift in the tunnel during the exercise period, according to the schedule we've got worked out." In the dim light, Hogan suddenly realized there was a short-handled spade in Robinson's hand... looked like he was about to punch in. "And don't get caught." Robinson paused for effect. "That last part's the most important. If they twig to what we're up to down here, it won't go well."

Hogan began to roll up his sleeves. "You don't have to tell me twice. Have Tommy let me know when he's ready to come in out of the rain."

oo 0 oo

A few hours later, hundreds of miles northwest of Hogan's first day on the job as assistant earthworm, his former colleagues were also somewhere they weren't supposed to be. The major difference was that all of _their_ heads were _real_.

The gun emplacement wasn't very large, for that type of installation. That could work for them or against them, depending on circumstances. At a bigger site they would have a better chance of blending in if they went inside in disguise; not everybody would know everybody else, and an unfamiliar face wearing the right uniform could easily take up a position without being challenged. On the other hand, smaller sites sometimes had more easily defeated barriers to entry, and being fairly new this one was still getting into its routine, also a possible advantage. Time would tell.

Pretty much the same thoughts were going through the minds of all four of the men hunched in the darkness of the hillside above the front gate, passing a pair of binoculars back and forth as they made their initial assessment of the job. "Seems like a pretty standard setup," Carter finally said, the first to weigh in. "Front gate, base commander's office over there on the left, and the four pieces of artillery a couple hundred yards to the right, behind that concrete barrier." He started to sketch the layout in pencil on a piece of graph paper for later analysis back at camp, noting the size of and distance between the various elements as best he could estimate.

"So to get a close look at the rangefinder and aiming mechanism and take the photos, we've gotta get past the guards at the gate, past the ones at the administration building, and past any extra ones that we can't even see down there patrolling the guns themselves." Kinch lowered the binoculars and passed them over to LeBeau.

"Cinderella did it," the Frenchman reminded him.

"I'll ring up me fairy godmother and see if she'll let us borrow her magic wand," Newkirk offered. Then he refocused his attention on a canopy truck that was approaching the front gate. "Hello, hello... what've we got here, then?"

LeBeau trained the binoculars on the truck as the sentry at the front gate approached the driver. "Looks like a routine supply delivery. Maybe that would be a good way for us to get inside to take the pictures. We could borrow a truck from the motor pool, and..."

To their surprise, instead of being waved inside the gate, the driver got out of the truck, and a second sentry from the sentry box came out to take his place behind the wheel and drove the truck onto the installation. The original driver remained outside the gate with his hands out to his sides, while the remaining guard kept a close eye on him. It was all done very automatically, almost as if it had been rehearsed… or done a dozen times before. Everyone involved looked like they were used to it and understood exactly what was expected of them.

"Gee, when you can't trust your own side, who _can_ you trust?" Carter asked.

"I guess that's the end of that idea," grumbled LeBeau. "If they won't even let their own Kraut drivers in there, there's no way _we_ could ever drive right past the sentries."

"If that was how Cinderella done it, they're onto it now," Newkirk agreed.

Kinch wasn't liking this mission any better the more he found out about it. There would be no room for error. Not much for erring on the side of caution, either. This would have to be a bold, extremely well thought out plan, yet time was of the essence and they didn't have much of it to spare in which to kick ideas back and forth. Every night those same upgraded guns sat at Calais was a night they had a golden opportunity to take down scores of Allied planes, and they were obviously making the most of that opportunity judging by what had happened to the courier plane. But like LeBeau had just said, if the sentries weren't even allowing for-real Germans inside the perimeter, what chance did the four of them have to get in, take the necessary pictures and get out?

Ten long, mysterious minutes later, they watched the now-empty truck drive back out through the gate, the sentry got out, the original driver got back in behind the wheel, and off he drove into the night.

"Looks like the show's over." Kinch started to get to his feet. "Carter, you all set? Got everything you need?"

Carter nodded with confidence. "Oh, yeah. Full sketch of the installation and perimeter."

"Anybody got anything else to add before we head back to camp?"

"I think a nice respectful prayer might be in order."

Sometimes Newkirk really needed to shut up. Kinch put that on his to-do list for later on... remind the mouthy Brit when enough was really enough, and any more than that was just moving air around. But that was an agenda item for back at camp, where they were more or less safe and sound. "Let's head home."


	11. Chapter 11

It didn't look like a wing.

It didn't look like much of anything, really; just a few lengths of warped wood crudely nailed together, with some torn sheets wrapped around it and tied on with twine. But Crittendon insisted it was a wing, and nobody so far had wanted to go to the trouble of disagreeing with him and subsequently being subjected to a long, dull speech about duty, honor, King and country. In Hogan's considered opinion it was no man's duty to kill himself in a massive display of poor planning and impracticality, but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. So the 'wing', such as it was, had been concealed behind a thirty-gallon bin of coarse-ground flour in the back of the main kitchen's pantry. And Crittendon had immediately begun work on the next essential element: a harness.

Hogan was aware of all that for two reasons. Firstly, Crittendon talked about his project incessantly, often well into the night. Hogan was already finding it hard enough to sleep with the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling lit up twenty-four hours a day, and unfortunately Crittendon seemed to have the same problem. Secondly, Robinson had been right: the Geneva Convention wasn't worth the paper it was printed on around here. All the officers were assigned to various work squads in and around the castel, like it or not. Kommandant Schreiner had decided that KP duty would best suit the newest member of Castel Fiocco's ranks, and Hogan found himself spending an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, rapidly becoming way more familiar with every nook and cranny of it than he wanted to be. Crittendon's 'wing' irked him just by its mere proximity.

He was drafting a strongly-worded letter to the Red Cross in his head that afternoon as he chopped a seemingly endless pile of turnips which would go into the thin soup that would comprise their evening meal, when the door of the kitchen swung open to admit none other than Mr. Congeniality himself, Kommandant Schreiner. Hogan had to make a spot decision: did he want to eat tonight, or didn't he? Yes, he decided that he did. He needed to keep up his strength in order to take his digging shifts in the tunnel. So he waited for the Kommandant to speak first.

"Hard at work, Hogan?"

"I like to keep busy, sir." There were lots of other things he'd rather have been doing with that short, dull knife to 'keep busy', and one or two of them involved Schreiner's internal organs. But that would probably ruin the soup.

"We will do our best to keep you supplied."

That was a statement, not a question, and as such did not require him to answer, so Hogan elected not to respond. It had been a hard lesson to learn at first, suppressing his natural tendency towards tossing out glib, smart-mouthed responses, but he was working on it. He'd missed a few too many meals lately.

As Schreiner meandered around the kitchen area, Hogan chopped turnips. And chopped turnips. And chopped some more. He was sure the head Kraut had a reason for being here, and he'd get around to mentioning it sooner or later. In the meantime, he would carry on with his assigned chore, reasonably certain that was what was expected of him.

Schreiner appeared to like a free show, especially when it involved an enemy officer being required to do something menial and degrading that the Geneva Convention specified that he shouldn't have to do in the first place, and he took a full four minutes to make one slow, deliberate circuit of the room, without a word from Hogan. No doubt he imagined that the silence was probably grating on the impertinent young officer, who longed to fill the quiet with some insolent remark or another, and he seemed to be enjoying the undeclared battle of wills. "I have something for you, Hogan," he said at last.

Uh oh. That couldn't be good. "For me, sir?"

Schreiner removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his tunic. "You have received a letter from home. I did not distribute it with the rest at mail call this morning because it required some extra redacting. We have of course removed everything that is questionable."

That probably meant just about all of it. Although this was the first piece of mail he'd received, Hogan had seen some of the incoming letters for his fellow prisoners, and often there was just about enough left to hang up as lace curtains. So the Red Cross had caught up with his change of address. Instead of making him feel better, it almost made him feel worse. Getting mail was just one more reminder that he was officially _here_ , and not where he really belonged. "Yes, sir."

"A reminder, Hogan, that prisoners who give us no trouble will receive no trouble from us." He extended the envelope to within Hogan's reach, and Hogan accepted it.

"Thank you, sir."

"You will read it."

"Yes, sir."

"Now."

Okay, why not? The turnips weren't going anywhere. Hogan removed the single sheet from the envelope and unfolded it. He had been expecting to see his mother's flowing script, but this wasn't her handwriting. His eyes skimmed down the page to the signature at the bottom. Who else would be writing to him here?

 _Aunt Alice._

It took just about every ounce of willpower he had at his disposal not to show a reaction. This wasn't from home… not directly, at any rate. It had come from the States via the Red Cross as any letter for him would be expected to, so as not to arouse suspicion… but it had been written in Germany. And now he recognized Kinch's handwriting. He began again at the top of the page.

 _Dear Bobby._

Well, now he _had_ to survive this war… because they were gonna get it for that. He smiled at the thought of the debate that must have gone on just to get those two words down on paper… most likely with half of them arguing that they couldn't address an officer that way, and the other half insisting that it was the perfect cover. Who would ever suspect a letter that began that way of being from anyone other than a sweet old lady back home in Cleveland, completely harmless, totally innocent?

 _We've been thinking about you a lot lately. We miss you and hope you are well._

As well as could be expected, he supposed. Still very aware that Schreiner was watching his every move to see if he might give anything away, he worked on keeping his best poker face as he kept reading.

 _We don't get to town these days quite as much as we used to, but…_

Here was some of the redacting that Schreiner had mentioned; the next several inches of words had been cut out with a sharp blade, leaving a long narrow hole in the paper. What was missing? He hoped it meant the operation was still up and running, one man down but still an 'open for business' sign in the window.

 _There's a big party at the dance hall coming up that we're looking forward to. You know Uncle George; he always wants us to keep dancing._

Again, that sounded like business as usual, more or less, and he knew he should take some degree of satisfaction in that. He'd laid the groundwork for it, his men had been well-trained, and they knew what they were doing. Whether London, and by extension the King, would appreciate being known as 'Uncle George'… well, they weren't going to hear about it from him.

More words cut out, nearly the entire last paragraph. Then, _Drop us a line if you can find the time._

Oh, he'd find the time, all right. Whether his reply would ever get where it was going or not was hardly guaranteed, but it was worth a try.

And then he was back down to the signature at the end. _Aunt Alice._ So the boys had played the sock. He'd passed command over to Kinch, and unless London had sent in a new CO, any coded mention of which might have been removed by Schreiner's censors, they were on their own. But they could handle it. No one man was irreplaceable.

Not even him, apparently.

Suddenly one brief letter with half of it cut out was jimmying the lock on his emotions more than any withheld meals and near-sleepless nights had been able to accomplish so far. It both surprised and unnerved him. _Poker face, 'Bobby'… keep your guard up…_

"Your Aunt Alice is well?"

"Yeah," Hogan nodded, carefully re-folding the letter and replacing it in the envelope. "Sounds like it."

"You will be permitted to reply, if you wish… under the usual restrictions, of course."

Of course. "Yes, sir."

"You may carry on, Hogan."

"Thank you, sir."

Schreiner let himself out and closed the heavy door behind himself as Hogan went back to the task at hand. The boys were out dancing with Uncle George, making a real difference in the way the war was going, and he was glad about that. He _was_. But here _he_ stood, on some crummy island, chopping up turnips just because some lousy Kraut with a bad haircut could decide to take away his meager rations if he refused, or if he even forgot to say "yes sir". One of these days those two words were going to choke him.

He didn't just _want_ to get out of here.

He _had_ to get out of here.

oo 0 oo

Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter patrolled the compound with canvas rubbish bags slung over their shoulders, stabbing pieces of trash with pointed sticks and adding them to their sacks one by one. It was mindless work that left their intellects free to work on the problem of the AA installation. The pencil sketch Carter had made was pinned to the back of his jacket, and he was in the lead, the other three trailing immediately behind him, examining the problem from every possible angle as they pretended to concentrate on their work.

"What about goin' _over_ the fence instead of in through the gate?" Newkirk asked.

"I meant to say something about that," Carter said. "When I was making that sketch I noticed a diesel generator right next to the fence. If it's meant to supply the main building, it's in the wrong place."

"So?" asked LeBeau. "Who cares where they put it?"

"Well, I can't say for sure, but it's way off to one side. So my guess is that it's supplying the wire, not the building… I think the fence is probably electrified."

"Charmin'. Forget what I just said about climbin' over it."

"Or cutting it," LeBeau added.

"Yeah. That could get very messy."

"What about disabling the generator?"

"Yeah!" Carter agreed. "We could hit it with a grenade tossed over the wire... _bababoom_!"

"And in the confusion we could cut the fence on the _other_ side of the installation," LeBeau continued.

"And we're in, nice as you please," concluded Newkirk. "A few quick snaps of the control panels on them guns and we've got what London wants right in our pockets."

"The timing worries me." Kinch hadn't picked up a single piece of trash in at least five minutes; he was giving one hundred percent of his attention to the problem pinned to the back of Carter's jacket. "Look at the distance between those points. Would blowing up the generator as a diversion give us enough time to cut the wire, get in, reach the artillery, photograph the controls, and then get out before the chaos dies down?"

"Knowin' I had a Kraut on me tail, I bet I could outrun Jesse Owens," Newkirk assured him.

"Don't get me wrong; I think it's a good plan, but..."

"It's also the only one we've got, which makes it a _great_ plan," LeBeau assured him.

Schultz's voice behind them just then startled them all into silence. " _What_ is a great plan?"

They turned around in one smooth motion, Carter a little bit more hurriedly since he had a map of a secret installation pinned to his jacket, and Newkirk obligingly stepped directly behind him to shield the sketch from view from the rear in case anyone else should surprise them. "Hi, Schultzie!"

"Never mind 'Hi Schultzie', I just heard you say something is a great plan... what were you talking about?"

"I'm glad you asked, Schultz," Kinch picked up. "Now listen very carefully... what we're gonna do is..."

" _Nein! Don't_ tell me _anything!"_

Well, it was nice to know that some things were still easy. Getting Schultz to change his mind about knowing what they were up to wasn't a challenge at all... all they ever had to do was offer to tell him. "Okay, but if you change your mind, let us know."

Schultz pointed at Carter. "The Kommandant is looking for _him_."

Carter paled. "What for?"

"I do not know. I do not care. All that is for me to do is to bring you to his office right away."

This was definitely not Carter's idea of a great way to spend the next half-hour, but he sighed in resignation and took a step forward. "Okay, Schultz, let's..."

Newkirk's hand came down on his shoulder like an anvil, preventing him from taking another step. "Andrew... you can't go like _that_."

"Well, if he won't give me time to get cleaned up, he'll just have to take me as I am."

"I _mean_... you _can't_ go like _that_."

Suddenly Carter again recalled the top-secret map pinned to the back of his jacket. "Oh boy... tell you what, Schultz, let me go back to the barracks just for a second, okay? I've been out here picking up trash and I'm kinda..."

"The Kommandant said _immediately_."

"But I..."

The next thing Carter felt was Newkirk's hand moving from his shoulder to the middle of his back. "Well, look here, Andrew... you've even got some of it stuck to you. Dear, oh dear..." In the next second he had torn the pencil sketch off the back of Carter's jacket, balled it up, and stuffed it into his canvas bag before Schultz could accidentally get a look at it. "You can't hardly go see the Kommandant like that, mate. Absolutely disgraceful."

Carter swallowed hard. Another bullet dodged. "Am... am I... clean, now?"

"Squeaky."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Still shaking a little bit, Carter handed off his sack and stick to Kinch, while Schultz made an attempt to appear to be officially inspecting the area. "There are a lot of cigarette butts over behind those boxes." He gestured to a stack of crates near the entry to the sergeants' mess.

"How do you know?" LeBeau asked. "I don't see anything."

"Because that is where the guards like to smoke," Schultz replied with an insincere smile. "One thing leads to another."

"Then the guards can pick them up."

"Who is giving the orders around here, you or me?"

"I think _I_ should; mine are more fair."

"You have the bag!"

"All right, I'll give _you_ the bag."

As LeBeau began to shrug off the bag, chuckling at how far he'd been able to push Schultz this time, he found himself nearly lifted off his feet by the back of his coat and turned around to face the boxes. "All right, all right! I'm going!"

With Carter on his way to Klink's office and LeBeau on his way to police the area behind the crates, that left Newkirk and Kinch. "What do you make of that?" Newkirk asked, gesturing after Schultz and Carter.

"I dunno." As LeBeau bent down and vanished behind a crate, Kinch suddenly stopped thinking about Carter. "Wait a second..."

"What is it?"

"I might have figured out what to do about our timing problem at the artillery installation."

"Good thinkin', mate!"

"I haven't even told you what it is yet."

"Well, let's not get hung up on petty details."

"We'll wait for Carter to get back from Klink's office, then we'll all talk it out in the barracks."

"I know him and Louis will go for it."

Kinch had his doubts. Why would LeBeau be as eager about this plan as Newkirk seemed to think he would be, when it involved putting him in more danger than any of the rest of them?

oo 0 oo

Carter had been afraid Klink would be in a bad mood. It was actually far worse to find him smiling broadly and flinging open the office door in welcome. That wasn't the least bit like Klink. He had something up his sleeve, and Carter was pretty sure he wouldn't like it when whatever it was finally worked its way out of his sleeve and onto the table.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Carter. How _are_ you?"

"Oh, I'm just fine sir. Peachy. And you?"

"Very well, thank you. Would you care for a drink?"

Had he heard that right? "Um... a drink, sir?"

"Yes, would you join me in a schnapps? I often have one at this time of day. I'd be delighted if you'd join me."

This _was_ Klink. Carter was sure of it. There couldn't be two guys who looked like that. But this was a Klink he'd never seen before, and he wasn't particularly pleased to be seeing him now. He might not _like_ the one he usually had to deal with, but at least he knew what to expect from him. This was all wrong. _Why'd I have to go and get that extra stripe?_ he berated himself. "No, thank you, sir. It's a little early for me. I was actually planning to wait until the Liberation."

That honest if indiscreet remark took a little of the wind out of Klink's sails, but he readjusted almost immediately. "Very well. Please, have a seat." He poured himself a small cordial and sat down behind his desk. " _Prost._ "

"If you say so."

He polished off the drink in one swallow. "Sergeant Carter, I've been hoping the two of us might have a talk, and come to an agreement."

"Well, sure. What is it you want to agree with me on?"

Klink poured another cordial, and this time he forgot to paste his smile back on. "What I meant was... I've been reconsidering the idea of a senior POW. I don't think it's necessary."

"You don't?"

"Well, I'm quite busy. And I know _you're_ very busy, doing... whatever it is you do all day. It seems to be difficult for us to get anything accomplished here."

"Heck, we've only had one meeting," Carter grinned. "Remember?"

Remember? Oh yes... Klink remembered. Talking to Carter was like talking to a parrot... it spoke, but it was incapable of holding an actual conversation. Words came out, but they made little sense and were often out of context. Sooner or later you just threw a sheet over the cage and gave up, and that was exactly what Klink was trying to accomplish here. He knew Carter had come back three or four times asking to see him since that meeting, but he had specifically instructed Fraulein Hilda to send him away if she hoped to keep her job. "Sergeant..."

"You don't have to worry, sir," Carter assured him. "Actually I'm really not all that busy. I don't mind coming back over and over. I'm a very patient kind of a guy. And since you're not busy right now, just sitting here having your schnapps, as long as I'm here maybe now would be a good time for us to talk about those missing Red Cross packages and the lights going out extra-early. As a matter of fact, now that I know this is the time of day you have your schnapps, I can just plan on coming over at the same time _every_ day."

Trapped. Somehow, no matter how carefully he thought he'd had this planned, Carter simply would not go away. "I need another drink."

"You've still got one in your hand."

The Kommandant downed it in a single gulp. "No I haven't."


	12. Chapter 12

This was getting to be old hat. As he did on many days, Hogan made a few slow rounds of the exercise yard in the pouring rain, then slipped into the alcove and through the narrow passage covered by the iron grate, as someone waiting there passed Tommy outside for his outing. Two of the men in the yard immediately grabbed the stand-in, got him into position and kept circulating. So far it had worked perfectly. That didn't mean their luck would hold indefinitely, but hopefully by the time the guards caught on at least some of the Allied prisoners would be on their way to freedom.

Today, though, there was something waiting for him inside rather than just the usual shovel.

"We've done it, Hogan!" Robinson greeted him with a two-handed grasp to the shoulders that in his exuberance was almost a hug. "We've broken through to the underground drainage system! O'Brien was right! We're nearly there!"

"That's terrific! What's our next step?"

"There's just a bit more reccy and clearing out to do down in the lower passageway and then we can start working out the details as to who and when as far as making the actual break. You're just in time."

"Great; give me a shovel. Or if you're running short, I'll start digging with my bare hands."

"Like your spirit, old man. And here's something else I think you'll be happy to hear: when we're ready to go, I've decided that you'll be in the group that clears out."

That _did_ come as a surprise. Although he was as excited about the prospect of escape as anyone would be under the circumstances, Hogan had always borne in mind that he was the newcomer: these men had all been here longer than he had, worked harder than he had, and were more entitled than he was to a swift and successful exit. There should be a whole lot of guys in line ahead of him. "I'm flattered, sir, but..."

"Oh, it's got nothing to do with flattery. It's pure practicality. Your operation at Stalag 13 makes you more of an expert in these matters than anyone else here. No matter how many times these other fellows may have broken out of their former stalags, you're the only one who's made a bloody career out of it. Your expertise on the outside will be invaluable, and the team has a much better chance at safe passage _with_ you than without you."

"I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will." He handed Hogan the shovel. "O'Brien's down at the end and he must be knackered; you can relieve him."

"On my way." Then he paused. "One question, sir?"

"By all means."

"The group that's escaping... is Crittendon on the roster?"

"Good lord, no! I daresay he's one of the things we're escaping _from._ "

"Just checking."

"Don't blame you."

 _Sorry about that, Crittendon_. But Hogan knew from much too much past experience that there was nothing more likely to foul up an escape than having him along for the ride, and after all this work Hogan wasn't eager to take any chances or tempt fate any more than absolutely necessary. Crittendon could stay here and work on his hang-glider, and that would give the rest of the team more of a fighting chance. He might even have enough dumb luck to make his own way out of here one of these days. It was certain that he'd never quit trying.

Every time Hogan thought he'd pushed himself through the restrictive passageway on his stomach as far as he could possibly fit, he saw that he still had a ways to go. The air down here was very close, thick with moisture, and had a strange smell. The ventilation was next to zero, and after some hard work a guy would usually come out seeing double and with a splitting headache. It would be a relief to break through to some fresh air. Still, a tunnel was a tunnel, and it meant freedom. It didn't have to have a seven-foot ceiling or kerosene lamps every six feet or a wine cellar. This one would work just as well to get them out of here as Stalag 13's network always had. The biggest difference was, _this_ tunnel would be one-way only.

By the time he found the new opening where they'd recently broken through and he could finally reach O'Brien, the chamber had become wide enough for the two of them to sit side by side. "Welcome to the main drain of the original castel," the junior officer grinned, his face nearly black with the gritty dark sand that seemed to be everywhere on this island. "From this point it's not far to the outside; it's just collapsed onto itself a bit right at the cliff wall. Nearly there."

Hogan glanced around at the comparative spaciousness of their location. "We could almost have a dance."

"That's how I knew we were close. The system widens here, and it'll save us a lot of time not having to haul all the debris back to the beginning. We got lucky; we didn't run into any fumaroles on the way."

"What's a fumarole?"

"In layman's terms, a small volcano."

" _What_?"

"This whole island's a volcanic outcropping, just like most of the other ones in this part of the world... there's a system of underground tubes that contain hot gases and sometimes lava. Never know where one might pop up." O'Brien picked up a small loose stone and held it to the candlelight. "You see the holes? When the molten lava cools, the gases dissipate and leave the holes behind. Quite fascinating, really, from a geological standpoint. But you wouldn't want to break through into an active fumarole down here. All sorts of nasty things could happen."

"You mean I've been down here digging all this time and I never even knew that was a possibility?"

"Sorry. Thought someone would have mentioned it early on."

The understatement tendencies of the average British officer would never cease to amaze Hogan. "Oh, that's okay... I'll probably get over it." Yet another reason to vastly prefer the Stalag 13 tunnel system: no chance of accidentally running into any molten lava. "Anything else down here I should know about that maybe nobody's mentioned to me yet?"

"Well, we do need to avoid the catacombs as well. There's an ancient crypt somewhere deep in the bowels of the castel where the nobles interred their dead… nasty place, I imagine… though we've yet to determine exactly where it is, so digging's always rather an adventure."

"Keep talkin', O'Brien; someday you might say something I like. You know, Nazi Germany actually has a lot going for it. I never really appreciated that until I wound up here."

O'Brien chuckled and tossed the stone to Hogan. "A souvenir of Fascist Italy."

"All I want to remember about Italy is _arrivederci_." Hogan set to work with the short-handled shovel, hacking and scraping at the fresh dent in the rock, as O'Brien started to work his way back out of the tunnel.

oo 0 oo

Kommandant Schreiner barked "Come!" when he heard the knock on his office door. His adjutant, Hauptmann Gruber, entered and saluted. "Yes, Gruber, what is it?"

"The prisoners are expected to complete their operation within the next twenty-four hours, Herr Kommandant."

"Fine." He signed his name to one of the documents in the stack before him, meticulously blotted the ink, and set it aside with care. "And I trust that everything is in place for our response?"

" _Jawohl._ "

"Excellent, Gruber. Keep me informed."


	13. Chapter 13

As Kinch had anticipated, his plan to access the artillery installation was met with something less than the hoped-for amount of enthusiasm by one key member of his team.

"And if I refuse?" LeBeau demanded.

"Technically I don't think that's an option," Carter replied. "Kinch outranks you, and the colonel put him in charge."

"Look, Louis, I don't really like this either..."

"You can't possibly like it less than I do!" LeBeau cut Kinch off abruptly.

"It worked once before, remember?"

"So we can't try something new?"

"It solves all the hitches: the problem with it taking too long to get in _and_ out in the amount of time it will take the guards to put out the generator fire, plus the problem of not letting anybody including for-real Kraut delivery boys in the gate. All we have to do..."

"All _we_ have to do? I don't remember anyone else in that box with me the last time!"

He had a point there. He'd been all by himself in that nailed-shut crate that they'd smuggled into the secret base, and unfortunately it was his own bad luck to be the one most easily concealed in a space that size in the first place. "Louis..."

"Look at it this way," Newkirk spoke up. "It ain't as bad as the time we had to shut you up in Klink's safe."

" _Ç_ _a n'est pas de rigolo_!"

"Louis, if I could do it myself, I would," Kinch assured him.

"You can! I will personally find for you a nice big box."

"That won't work and you know it. The bigger the box, the bigger the suspicions. We need something small enough that looks like routine supplies so they won't take too close a look at it on the way in. If it looks like we're trying to deliver a piano, it'll never make it inside the gate." LeBeau didn't add anything else; either he was pausing for breath to deliver his next objection or completely withdrawing from the conversation, but either way Kinch moved quickly to fill the silence, hoping he would soon start to sound much more convincing than he was afraid he did at the moment. "It'll go like this. Newkirk delivers you to the front gate, the sentry drives you to the unloading area, and then when you hear Carter blow the generator you let yourself out of the box, make your way to the guns, and take the pictures. I'll be out by the back fence waiting for the juice to stop flowing so I can cut the wire for you to get out again, and I'll stay close to the break in the fence just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"Just in case anything happens."

"Like me getting captured, maybe?"

"Try not to; it'll make for a happier night all around."

Newkirk took the opportunity to whip a tape measure out of his pocket and stretch it between the Frenchman's shoulders. "I'd say you take about a thirty regular in a pine crate."

"Measure carefully, _mon pote._ I may be in it for a very long time."

"An hour, tops," Kinch promised.

"Not if the Krauts bury me in it."

oo 0 oo

This was a very different kind of escape for Hogan: it was for himself, for real, and one-way. But he wasn't complaining.

Six men had been chosen, Hogan and O'Brien hand-picked by Robinson and the rest by drawing lots, to form the escape team. The hope was that the drainage tunnel would serve again in the future and allow another group to follow after some time had passed, but there were no guarantees. Every man who had worked on the operation and now knew he himself would be left behind was aware of that, but none of them could have been more supportive of the ones who'd been fortunate enough to have the first go. Whether in actuality or in spirit only, they were all in this together.

And it was to be no cakewalk. Getting out through the open end of the centuries-old drain and making their way down the cliff would be the easy part. There remained nearly a half-mile of open water and dangerous currents to deal with after that, there were only a few ways to approach it, and none of them were particularly appealing. But they all agreed that they had to _try._ Were they ready? It was hard to say for sure. But they might never be _more_ ready.

The escape team and Robinson were gathered in the castel's massive kitchen around a hand-drawn map of the island for one final briefing, watching the clock as they conferred. It was now 5:13, chow was at 6, and there were still jobs to be done in order to get the meal out at the appointed hour. Their after-dinner stroll was scheduled for dusk, between the time allowed for the prisoners to clean up after the meal and the time they were required to be in their individual cells for the night.

"It's not a complex plan, but let's not forget that one chap got away from Colditz by simply leaping over a wall and running like a scorched rabbit." Robinson gestured to the sketch. "We can't know for sure what the sentry situation at the dock is. When Hogan arrived he saw only one, but that's not to say there couldn't be more. If there _is_ only the one, you chaps should try to take him out to give yourselves as much time as possible before an alert goes out. If there's any possible way to take his uniform along with you, it may come in very handy later on. But if there are more guards than the six of you can handle, go straight for the water."

"Using these." Hogan pointed to an area at some distance from the dock... and thus, he believed, out of the direct line of sight of any sentries they were likely to encounter. "They've stacked up what looks like the remains of at least two or three wrecked rowboats... and that's a reminder, in case anybody needs one, of what that current will be like on the way to the mainland. The planks look like they've been there a good long time so they should be nice and dry, and provide a lot of floatation. But don't ride too high in the water until you get away from the island... you'd be a sitting duck if the searchlights come on. When we hit the water, we'll head straight for the shore and attempt to re-group. If that's not possible within an hour after reaching land, strike out in pairs or individually; don't wait too long or you won't make it far enough away before dawn."

Robinson made eye contact with each man in turn. "Understood, everyone?"

There was a murmur of accord. Yes, they understood. In a few hours they'd either be on their way to freedom, captured, or dead.

oo 0 oo

Newkirk banged on the side of the wooden crate containing a none-too-pleased LeBeau. "Everythin' all right in there, Louis?" The muffled response was impossible to understand. "He's fine. Still breathin', anyway."

Their routine 'borrowing' of a truck from the motor pool accomplished, the men had paused about a quarter-mile down the road and were in the final stages of their approach to the facility. It had been a pleasant change this time not to have to walk all the way, they would have a ride for the trip back to camp as well, and they were all looking forward to finally getting this mission over with. Maybe LeBeau most of all.

"I'm ready," Carter added. "Got a couple of grenades that'll take that generator out before you can say 'spontaneous combustion'".

"Good," Kinch nodded. "Make sure to wait until the sentry comes out to take the truck from Newkirk and drive it inside. I'll be at the back fence to make the cut for LeBeau to get out after he takes the photos. Any questions?"

There was another muffled interjection from inside the wooden crate. "I think we better get back to him on that," Newkirk suggested. "Whatever it is." He donned his helmet to complete the look of Official Nazi Truck-Driver and climbed up into the seat behind the wheel. "We'll see you lads in a bit."

He sounded very confident about that, Kinch noted. Hopefully not _over_ confident. It all sounded so simple, so workable, on paper. Very few moving parts, nothing complicated. Easy as walking down the street.

In Hammelburg. And stopping at a fruit store. And losing a colonel. Yeah. Easy.

oo 0 oo

The breakthrough to the outside of the cliff face had changed the entire climate down in the tunnel, and there was fresh air now. Hogan pressed onward in the early stages of the escape, pulling himself along on his elbows, feeling really encouraged this time in spite of the tight squeeze, knowing that now there would be an opening at the other end. He couldn't hear any talking amongst the five men crawling ahead of him with O'Brien in the lead. Everything that required discussion had already been settled. Everyone was focused on just one thing. _Escape._

The flickering flame of the candle stub that he pushed ahead of him on a tin plate caught a small detail he didn't recall having seen before on his many trips back and forth: _GRD '43_ had been freshly scratched into the rock wall with something sharp. That would be Dowling; apparently he'd found both the time and the desire to leave his mark on the way out. That made at least one hopeful soul who believed that the tunnel would be used again and that someone else on his way out would see it someday. What was that old saw: 'where there's life, there's hope'? Whoever had originated that saying had probably been a POW.

Suddenly Hogan heard a strange sound. A low-pitched, but distinct, hum. It was followed seconds later by an unusual vibration, something he had never experienced before during any of the times he'd been digging down here. If this crummy rock was going to pick _now_ to erupt... what was it O'Brien had said about fumaroles? Is this what they sounded like? He was just about to call out to O'Brien when he heard the young lieutenant's voice from up ahead.

"Back!" O'Brien called at the top of his lungs. "Everyone _back_! Every..."

Then all Hogan could hear was a loud roar. And it was getting closer. Fast.

oo 0 oo

Gruber had switched on the pumps at Schreiner's order, which had caused the initial low rumbling below ground, but as he had reached to open the main valve the kommandant motioned to him to step aside, and turned the wheel himself. Exactly as designed, tons of pressurized seawater began pouring into the hollowed-out areas underneath the castel. "We have a net in place on the cliff, Herr Kommandant," Gruber stated.

"Very good. Any that miss it can be collected from the rocks below. And any that don't make it that far can be collected from the tunnel when the water level goes down." Schreiner's use of the word 'collected' was significant: 'captured' would imply a living subject, and between the flood and the fall, he calculated that those numbers would be in the minority.

oo 0 oo

When the torrent of frigid seawater struck him full in the face, Hogan's first thought was a simple one: he was going to die.

His first instinct was to keep moving ahead, then he remembered that there were five men in the narrow tunnel between him and the opening in the cliff wall. If even one of those men had already been overcome by the water there would be no way out. Barely large enough to admit a man crawling on his belly, the tunnel was filling rapidly. He made the decision to back up before his pounding heart had had a chance to hammer out two more beats: it was awkward, it was slow, but at least he could be certain the way would be clear, and it was his only chance for survival. He dug his elbows into the ground as deeply as possible and began to push for his life, abandoning the candle to the rising water, plunging the tunnel into total darkness.

It was at least eight inches deep already, and he was beginning to have trouble keeping his face above it. Panicking, he pushed himself too high, and cracked the back of his head against the tunnel's rocky ceiling. No good; if he knocked himself out, that would be the last mistake he'd ever make. So he kept his head down, and got another faceful of water that overcame him for a moment. As soon as he got his breath and his bearings back, he tried again, this time raising his head just far enough to take in one good breath and then hold it, not worrying about whether his head went under or not, and found himself able to move backwards several precious yards before he needed another.

 _Right... it's working... it's working... don't panic..._

With his next breath he called out, "Everybody back this way!" No reply; no sound at all except the rushing water. Maybe they'd all made it out the far end, through the cliff wall.

Or maybe none of them were still alive to hear him.

Another deep breath, another plunge beneath the icy salt water, another anxious few yards closer to the tunnel entrance. His hands had gone numb from the cold, and he was moving on pure instinct... couldn't see, couldn't feel. He wanted to call out to the others again, but he didn't have the strength.

Finally, he felt himself on the upward slope that meant he was back at the entrance to the tunnel, the chamber off the exercise yard where Robinson had first told him about the escape plan. With one final effort that was almost superhuman in his desperation, Hogan struggled backwards and upwards out of the narrow opening, coughing and choking, fighting to draw a decent breath, feeling himself starting to gray out from lack of oxygen.

A booted foot came down on the back of his neck, forcing the side of his face into the soggy ground. "Good evening, Colonel Hogan," Kommandant Schreiner said.


	14. Chapter 14

Newkirk dropped the truck's engine into a lower gear as he approached the closed gate. There hadn't been a peep out of LeBeau since they'd left Kinch and Carter down the road; the Frenchman was eager enough to complain, but not foolish enough to do it once the mission was in progress. It was almost hard for him to remember that he wasn't alone in the truck, it was so quiet back there. "Piece of cake..." he muttered to himself, wishing he really believed it. All he had to do was let the Kraut sentry take the truck and drive Louis in his Trojan-horse crate inside. What could possibly go wrong?

The look he got from the sentry on duty outside the wire was far from a welcoming one, accompanied as it was by a rifle barrel pointed in his direction. " _Was machen Sie hier?_ "

The testy Brit somehow suppressed the urge to respond with 'What does it look like I'm doin', boilin' an egg _?'_ "Supply delivery," he answered in his best gruff soldier-voice.

"We are expecting no delivery tonight. Not until tomorrow morning."

"The invoice said it was urgent. I came as quickly as possible."

The sentry gave him another unfriendly look, but turned and called toward the guard house. " _Achtung! Klaus!_ " When nobody appeared fast enough to suit him, he hopped up on the running board, reached over Newkirk and sounded the truck's horn. " _Schnell!_ " Still no response. With a disgusted grunt, he jumped back down to the ground and motioned Newkirk to proceed towards the gate. "Go ahead! Hurry it up!"

A knot had formed in his stomach as he'd approached the gate, and now there was a matching one in his throat. "You... you want _me_ to drive it in there?"

"I don't know where Klaus is and I cannot leave my post! You want to make this delivery tonight, then make it!"

Well, that answered his earlier question about what could possibly go wrong. This wasn't part of the plan; he was supposed to circle back and meet up with Kinch at the rear fence as soon as Carter's grenades took the generator out of commission. Well... they would just have to improvise. Newkirk said a short silent prayer to a god he figured must have given up on him long ago, shifted into gear, and let up on the clutch as the gate swung open.

oo 0 oo

The heel of the German's boot digging into Hogan's neck was probably all that had kept him from passing out: the pain gave him something to focus on, and the grayness that had surrounded him was starting to clear. He remained prostrate on the muddy earth, putting everything he had left into simply taking one ragged breath after another, measuring success only by the fact that he was spitting out a little less water each time. When Gruber entered, he was only dimly aware of it.

"Herr Kommandant, the cliff detail has recovered Gillespie, Matthews, and O'Brien from the net."

"Alive?"

" _Jawohl_."

Schreiner nodded. "And here we have Hogan, also alive... for the time being."

"A recovery team has been dispatched to locate Dowling and Drake. The pumps have been switched off, but they must wait for the underground shaft to drain."

The etching on the rock wall suddenly flashed in Hogan's semi-conscious mind. _GRD_ ' _43._ Dowling was twenty-six, from Cornwall. He had a wife named Priscilla and a two-year-old son. And now he was probably dead, along with Drake. Drowned like rats in a sewer. Schreiner had known all along. He'd let them come this far on purpose, squandering their time, their energy, their strength... and two lives.

The boot lifted off his throat. "Get up, Hogan!"

He would have loved to. He would have loved to get up, get his hands around Schreiner's windpipe, and show him what not being able to draw a breath felt like. But not a muscle in his body was able to fully obey him at the moment. His left foot ineffectively kicked a few small rocks a couple of inches, then gave up. _I can't..._ concluded the voice in his head. _I don't know what they're gonna do about it, but I can't..._

Schreiner hesitated only a few seconds before barking out his next order. "Take him to solitary!"

Gruber and the other guard each grabbed Hogan by one arm and lifted him up sharply, which pulled the gray shadow back over his eyes as the blood rushed from his head. He tried one more time to get his feet under him, but failed. He was aware of his heels dragging heavily along the muddy, gritty ground for only a few seconds, then finally lost consciousness.

oo 0 oo

Carter looked on from the cover of the tree line as the truck, with Newkirk for some puzzling reason still at the wheel, passed through the open gate. He was supposed to wait for the guard to drive the truck inside before he tossed the grenades over the fence... well, _now_ what was he supposed to do? If he used the walkie-talkie to check with Kinch, the sound of his voice on the radio might alert any nearby guards to Kinch's position. If he went ahead anyway, with only part of the plan in place, it became a brand-new plan and nobody knew how it was supposed to shake out.

After a few seconds weighing the pros and cons, he made the decision: he'd blow the generator in spite of the deviation, and trust that both LeBeau and Newkirk would be able to make it out through the hole in the fence that was Kinch's part of the operation. He was sure that his eagerness to blow the generator into a mound of hot metal shavings and bottlecaps didn't enter into his decision to proceed. Well... not much. Maybe a little.

Newkirk drove towards the building the sentry had indicated, set the brake, and then put his feet up on the empty seat beside him to wait for LeBeau to let himself out of the crate. A moment later, a detail occurred to him that sent him scrambling over the seat into the back of the truck: _he_ wasn't supposed to _be_ here, and there was one other person he needed to advise of that, sharpish, because in addition to the necessary camera, LeBeau was also armed with a pistol. The sight of a 'German' in the front seat of the truck when he emerged might lead to an embarrassing misunderstanding.

He banged on the top of the box with his fist. "Hey, Louis! It's me! Don't you shoot me or I'll be bloody annoyed!"

The spring latch on the inside of the box worked perfectly: in another few seconds LeBeau had freed himself from the crate and struggled, stiff-kneed, to his feet with Newkirk's assistance. "What are you doing here?"

"Never mind; let's just wait for Carter's diversion, then get them photos and we'll get outta here."

There was only a fingernail sliver of moon, a perfect night for sabotage. Carter sprinted over to the fence, double-checked to ensure that he hadn't been spotted, and removed two standard potato-mashers from his knapsack. Unsophisticated, crude, downright old-fashioned, but they would do the job. With a sure hand that had done it so many times it was almost like tying his shoes, he pulled the two pins one right after the other and lobbed the grenades in a smooth arc over the fence, both of them landing perfectly on target right next to the generator on the other side of the wire. He had about ten seconds to make it back to the tree line. He made it in eight, using the two extra seconds to turn around and admire his handiwork as it erupted.

The first explosion ripped the left side off the generator, and the second ignited the fumes from the fuel gushing from the ruptured tank, shooting rolls of orange flame fifty feet into the air. As usual, Carter couldn't contain a proud grin. Even if the war lasted another ten years, he was sure he'd never get tired of really, really good explosions.

Kinch had been expecting an explosion, but the one that came was substantial enough to make him duck and cover just in case any stray pieces of it might be coming his way at a hundred miles an hour. In hindsight, probably just _one_ grenade would have done the trick... a note for next time. He paused for a few seconds to allow the remaining electrical charge time to dissipate into the grounding cables, then touched a screwdriver to two parallel sections of wire, bridging a circuit. For insurance, he'd donned rubber gloves: when working with high voltage, there was no such thing as 'too careful'. But there was no doubt that the current had completely discharged: there was no spark, no nothing. He stuffed the screwdriver back into his pocket and took out the wire cutters. So far, so good.

Newkirk and LeBeau were also momentarily startled at the intensity of the blast. "All of that from one little generator?" the Frenchman asked. "It sounded like a whole ammo dump."

"Andrew don't do nothin' halfway."

"Let's go. I already can't wait to get out of here."

Every guard in the place was running towards the fireball, so it was a simple matter for the two of them to make their way unseen towards the gun emplacement on the other side of the outpost. Newkirk gave the Frenchman a boost up to the control panel of the first gun in the row. "Hurry it up."

"You don't have to tell me." LeBeau ducked under the canvas cover. The miniature camera was perfect for this type of work, a simple one-button operation that required no focusing or other settings. There were a _lot_ of settings on the panel, though. He began working systematically from left to right, advancing the film one frame at a time as he went. Each button, dial and switch was important; he knew he couldn't afford to miss any.

From Newkirk's perspective, the most critical thing was to ensure that the flash wasn't visible from outside. The camouflage tarp over the control panel was thick enough to conceal the light, but it kept shifting as LeBeau moved around underneath it. He pulled it tighter against the gun housing. "Stop your squirmin'," he whispered.

"What?"

Newkirk didn't have a chance to repeat himself. The next voice he heard came from behind him... and it definitely did _not_ have a French accent. " _Was machen Sie hier_? Every man is needed to fight the fire!"

Uh oh. This was the second time tonight something hadn't gone as planned, and he didn't like this any better than he'd liked the first one. _"Jawohl..._ I was just... lookin' for a bucket?" He hadn't intended to phrase it as a question, but it ended up coming out that way.

The guard – the same one who had admitted him a few minutes earlier – grabbed a tin pail from a nearby hook and slammed Newkirk in the stomach with it. "Are you blind? _Schnell_!"

Seeing no other way to respond, Newkirk fumbled a salute with his free hand and backed out of the enclosure. "Um... _jawohl..._ "

" _Raus!_ "

None of this had escaped LeBeau's notice. He froze as soon as he heard the guard's voice, then heard Newkirk reluctantly leave the area. The fading sound of the guard's emergency whistle as he ran after Newkirk to rejoin the men fighting the fire told him he was alone. _Eh bien..._ better get back to work. He didn't need Newkirk's help to finish the job, and in fact he might finish quicker without all the editorializing. Newkirk could take care of himself.

The fire showed no sign of dying down anytime soon. The water from the hoses wasn't doing much except spreading the burning fuel in an ever-widening pool, and attempts to get close enough to smother the flames with buckets of sand were being driven back by the heat and smoke. A corner of the administration building had also flared up, and the guards fought to keep it from spreading to the rest of the structure.

Once he joined the fire brigade, Newkirk set himself to accomplishing as little as possible without attracting suspicion. It wasn't too difficult in all that chaos; there wasn't much he could have done to be effective even if he'd wanted to be. He was good at yelling and waving his arms, so that's what he set himself to, giving loud and conflicting directions to the soldiers, occasionally chucking half a bucket of sand well short of the actual flames.

Kinch lowered his sidearm when he recognized Carter approaching. "How many grenades did you use on that generator?"

"Just two," Carter replied. "Boy howdy, didja did see it?"

"See it? I think it singed my mustache." He finished the opening he'd cut in the fence and started to bend the sharp ends of wire back out of the way. "Where's Newkirk? He should be here by now."

"Oh yeah... I almost forgot to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"The guard made Newkirk drive the truck inside the compound. He'll have to come out this way with LeBeau."

"It'd be nice if at least _one_ thing would go the way we planned it. Now we lose the truck and we'll have to walk all the way back to camp."

"Oops."

"Great... why don't we make it official, and call this Operation Oops." That about said it all, but if it was the worst thing that happened tonight, it wouldn't be all that bad.

Still, the night was young.

oo 0 oo

Hogan woke up back in the tunnel.

No... scratch that... this couldn't be the tunnel. The tunnel was under water. His short-term memory was a little cloudy, but he remembered that much. This place was pitch dark and close, but at least it was dry. He was lying on his back, on a hard flat surface. He tried to raise his hand to his forehead, but there was hardly even room to bend his elbow.

Right. Well. This must be solitary. He'd figured on ending up here eventually.

Moving very cautiously, he explored the narrow space with his hands and feet. There was almost no room to move, and none at all in which to change position. Straight sidewalls. Square corners. A flat surface just a couple of inches above his face. To his fingertips it felt like the enclosure had been carved from the hard pitted stone of that volcanic rock O'Brien had gone on about at such length and in such detail. So… this _was_ a tunnel. It must be.

What else could it be?

But… what was with all the square corners? Who would dig a tunnel, even such a narrow one, with that kind of mathematical precision? What did it matter if…

 _I'm in the crypt!_

The reality of his situation suddenly hit him harder than even the seawater had. He was alive… he could hear himself breathing hard and hear his heartbeat sending pulses of blood throughout his body… could feel cold sweat starting to run down his temples… alive, definitely… but Schreiner had put him where they only put dead men.

And how many men ever made it out of their own grave?


	15. Chapter 15

Well, _one_ thing had finally gone the way they'd planned: LeBeau arrived at the opening in the fence at breakneck speed, clutching the miniature camera with both hands tight against his chest, as if he feared it might try to escape his grasp under its own power and he didn't want to take any chances. But just _one_ thing going right wasn't enough to satisfy the mission's commander. "Where's Newkirk?" Kinch demanded.

"Don't I get a 'hello'?" But LeBeau continued. "One of the guards made him go fight the fire with the others. He's not back yet?"

"Oh, great. This just gets better and better." Kinch pointed towards the woods. "Take off; get that film back to camp. I'll find Newkirk." When the Frenchman hesitated, he gestured again. "Go on! I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to do this all over again a third time!"

"Since you put it that way…" LeBeau darted towards the woods without any further hesitation.

Kinch turned to Carter. "You got any more of those party favors on you?"

"Oh, sure. I brought a spare just in case. I try to be prepared."

"Your next Boy Scout merit badge might be pinned on by Roosevelt himself. Give me two minutes. If I'm not back here with Newkirk by then, try and take out the command post. That'll buy me at least another two minutes to find him."

"It's the last one I've got."

"I know. So if the two of us aren't back in _four_ minutes, you follow LeBeau."

Carter didn't look any more satisfied with that plan than LeBeau had a minute ago, but he nodded slightly. "Well, okay. But you'll be back."

"Sure we will." Well, it _sounded_ good, anyway. Something to shoot for.

The fuel that had leaked from the generator was still burning bright and hot, but the surrounding knot of guards seemed to have collectively decided there wasn't a lot they could do except let it burn off, so they were confining their efforts to stopping the spread of the volatile liquid across the ground, piling berms around stray streams, and knocking out any smaller fires that had started up from splashing kerosene. Thanks to the flames, the light was good… and that was bad. Kinch could see the men's faces as he worked his way carefully around the far perimeter, but he knew that if any of them happened to look in his direction there was a good chance they would be able to see _his_ face as well, and it wasn't a face any of them would be likely to mistake for one of their own number. He didn't see Newkirk, but by now there were good odds he had found a way to slip away from the firefighting and make it back to the opening in the fence on his own. The two minutes he'd given Andrew were just about up. He didn't really want a new explosion set off if he could help it, so Kinch decided to circle back to the cut in the fence and see if he could make it all the way up to three when he did his next head count.

" _Hände hoch!"_

The voice behind him meant business, and Kinch put his hands in the air without any hesitation.

"I'm thinkin' of goin' on the stage after the war, Kinch… what do you think of me actin'?"

Down came Kinch's hands. And as he turned around, he considered wrapping them around the Englishman's throat. "Oh, real funny, Newkirk."

"I thought so," the Brit chuckled. "I don't make a half-bad Kraut, if I do say so meself. Had you goin' there for a minute, didn't I?"

"We _both_ better get going, before Andrew blows most of what's left of this place sky-high."

Newkirk gestured courteously towards the back fence. "After you, _Herr Feldwebel_."

"Watch your language."

It was a relief to find Andrew right where he was supposed to be, at the hole in the fence, having reached twenty-two-Mississippi in his countdown, at which point he cut himself off at the sight of Newkirk and Kinch approaching. "Boy, am I glad to see you!"

"Where's Louis?" Newkirk asked, taking the bulky walkie-talkie from Carter's hand and stuffing it into the deep pockets of his uniform overcoat.

"On his way back to camp with the film."

"Smashin'. Let's see if we can better his time and be waitin' for him when he gets there."

Carter, then Kinch, passed through the cut in the fence and took off for the woods at top speed. Right behind them, Newkirk pulled up short when right sleeve of his bulky overcoat caught on a barb. "Blimey…" He yanked harder, but instead of tearing the cloth he succeeded only in burying the barb even deeper into the thick woolen fabric. Cursing his luck under his breath, he started to unfasten the buttons to slip out of the overcoat entirely.

" _Wer ist da?"_

The voice behind him wasn't a fake Kraut… it was a real one. The bright beam of light that caught him a second later lit up his unfortunate situation with mid-afternoon brilliance. The gate guard, who Newkirk had been fervently hoping never again to see in his life, caught up to him a couple of seconds later. He was had. Caught like a rabbit in a trap. Before he could even open his mouth to surrender, though, the guard continued. "Good work, soldier! So this is where the saboteurs came in!"

"Uh… um… _jawohl…_ " Well, he'd just been bragging a minute ago that he made a very convincing German soldier; now it was up to him to prove it, this time to an even more difficult audience to win over than Kinch.

"Stand aside!"

That was out of the question. If he did that, this guard would have too good a chance of catching up to Kinch and Carter. He might radio for assistance and succeed in cutting them off between here and the camp. In a worst-case scenario, they might even get their hands on LeBeau and the precious film in that camera. Newkirk had only a second to decide what he was going to do, and he did it: under the guise of moving aside as ordered, he deliberately impaled his left sleeve and the leg of his trousers on two more protruding barbs of the fence. " _Jawohl, Herr Feldwebel!_ "

The guard tried to push Newkirk out of his way, but caught on three different points like that he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, and there was no room for anyone else to squeeze past him through the narrow opening. With a grunt of disgust, the sergeant pulled out his whistle and gave three loud blasts to alert the rest of the base.

 _Well, there goes me promotion in the Kraut army,_ Newkirk thought. He still struggled halfheartedly to free himself, but now it was a token effort, only for show. He knew he wasn't going anywhere tonight. The head start that Kinch, Carter and LeBeau had was widening with every passing second. Soon they'd be safe, home free along with the film. He'd done his part in that regard.

But he himself was now in the stickiest of wickets. He was absolutely certain of one thing: there couldn't be anybody _anywhere_ who was in a worse fix than Corporal Peter Newkirk was right now.

oo 0 oo

 _Bob Feller… Number 19…_

Hogan took a controlled, shallow breath, trying his best to conserve oxygen. He'd been working on that one thing, only on that, for what felt like a very, very long time. He had no way of knowing how long. Time in this tight, silent, pitch-dark hole had pretty much come to a screeching halt. He acknowledged that maybe he didn't _want_ to know how long he'd been here.

 _Pitcher… 1939 American League wins leader…_

Breath.

He'd very nearly hit panic head-on as soon as he'd realized where he was, come a little too close to losing his grip, but so far he'd managed to keep it at bay. More or less. He might be a dead man no matter what, but he knew what would happen if he lost his self-control, and he couldn't let that happen. The Krauts might get him in the end, but they weren't going to get him to do it for them.

 _Triple Crown, 1940…_

Breath.

By forcing himself to concentrate on something that didn't matter very much, like the pre-war roster for the Cleveland Indians, he found he could keep his mind off that which _did_ matter, a _lot._

 _Bats right, throws right…_

Breath _._

Like how much air might be left in here, and how much time he might have before it ran out.

 _Two-time... no, t_ _hree_ _-time All Star…_ _don't panic_...

Breath.


	16. Chapter 16

" _Damn_ it!" Every tin plate and cup on the barracks table jumped four inches into the air when Kinch slammed his fist down.

Nobody was going to argue with that; it was exactly the way the rest of them felt about how the operation had gone, starting at the point where they'd realized Newkirk was no longer with them. Having only four men sitting around that table for the past few weeks had been tough. Only three was even worse. As annoying as Newkirk's big mouth could certainly be, there was nothing Kinch wouldn't have given to hear a loud, disrespectful wisecrack in that thick East End accent right now. He felt like the director of an out-of-control community-players production of _And Then There Were None,_ who had lost his own copy of the script and had no idea what was going to happen next.

"Maybe it's just taking him a long time to catch up to us," LeBeau suggested. "Maybe he had to go a long way around to avoid patrols."

"That's right. After all, we didn't hear any shooting," Carter piped up.

"And maybe they caught him and hanged him as a spy! That wouldn't make much noise!"

The film canister that they had removed from the camera sat in the middle of the table. Whether its presence was reassuring or mocking, they couldn't quite decide. "I guess... I guess I probably oughta develop that," Andrew ventured.

Sometimes Carter was one hundred percent, clearly, without any shadow of a doubt, right. Sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to help matters any. And if Newkirk was... well... gone... there was no point in his loss being in vain. "Right," Kinch agreed, this time in a somewhat less heated tone. "Let me know when the negatives are ready, and make three sets of prints... we're not taking any chances this time. I want insurance, just in case the next courier plane takes another unplanned bath in the Channel."

"Are we going back for Newkirk?" LeBeau ventured.

"If they know who he really is, he won't be at the installation anymore; he'll be at Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg. If they _don't_ know who he is, he's just slippery enough to keep it that way, at least for a while. I'll get on the radio and see if I can find out if the Gestapo's been alerted to a captured spy in the area. How long on the pictures, Andrew?"

"Couple hours."

"I'll also give London an update on the photos and see if I can get another plane here to pick them up tomorrow night. If we can get that much off our plate, we'll be able to concentrate on finding Newkirk."

"Boy, is Klink gonna be mad at morning roll call."

"Not if I can help it. LeBeau, whip up a strudel or something... we'll need to bribe Schultz to keep his mouth shut about the count. I don't want extra patrols in the woods right now. If Newkirk _is_ trying to get back in, we want to make it easy for him."

" _Oui._ Good thinking; with his mouth full Schultz won't be able to report anything even if he wanted to."

oo 0 oo

A strudel would have looked very good just then to Newkirk. Almost anything would have been better than what was in front of him. The worst can of chipped beef he'd ever seen, a year past its sell-by date, would have seemed like a gourmet meal in comparison to whatever it was that the mess hall sergeant had just thrown down onto the dented tin tray in his hands. To add insult to injury, it was cold, since with the generator out of commission there was no power for the stove. Everything reeked with the overpowering stench of burned fuel and mud, since he and the 'other guards' had just spent a grueling several hours with coal shovels trying to scoop the gluey mess into fifty-gallon metal drums, and they'd all been marinating in the stuff. He'd tried to wash up a bit before the meal, but it hadn't done much good. Well... at least nobody was likely to recognize him. Not even his own mum would have had better than three-to-one odds.

The pushy gate sergeant, whose name was Stolz, took a seat across from him at the table and set his own dinner down. Great... just one more way for this whole evening to go straight down the pan. " _Guten Abend,"_ Newkirk said anyway, feeling it was probably expected of him.

" _Was für ein Abend,_ " the sergeant grumbled. "Eat. We do it all over again tomorrow when it gets light out."

"Uh... I was thinking, I should be getting back to my original post. I wouldn't want them to think I went AWOL."

"Forget it. Your truck has been commandeered and we need all the able-bodied men we can get to finish the clean-up here. If your commanding officer wants you that badly, he knows where to look for you." He glared at Newkirk. "Eat!"

No matter which army you were in, there was never any mistaking a direct order. Out of options, Newkirk sawed a tip off what he thought might be bratwurst and put it in his mouth. And chewed. And chewed some more. After realizing there was nothing else he could do with it, he swallowed it whole and chased it with a gulp of room-temperature black coffee.

Even one of LeBeau's eel-head stews reeking of garlic would have a certain amount of nostalgic appeal right now. At least it wouldn't be harder than his teeth. Hopefully the _Abwehr_ had a good dental plan; he was almost guaranteed to chip a few before he managed to figure out a way out of here.

oo 0 oo

Hogan had no way of knowing it, but at that moment he wasn't quite as completely alone as he believed. Not more than six feet away stood Kommandant Schreiner and his adjutant Gruber, in the vestibule. The walls of the circular underground crypt were lined with one-meter-square slabs of thick volcanic stone which sealed each single-occupancy burial chamber. Some were filled. Others the kommandant and his staff kept available for whatever use might occur to them. A few hadn't been opened in more than a century; nobody knew who or what might be behind those stones. Most of whatever was in there had been dead for a long, long time.

And then there was Hogan. Alive, or so they assumed. At least he had been when they'd put him in there two days ago. Behind the third slab from the left, middle row, was one living human being. _Vielleicht_.

"What say you this time, Gruber?" Schreiner asked conversationally. The ten-lira coin in his right palm was face-up. Yesterday he'd tossed it in the air and it had landed the same way, but Gruber had wagered it would be tails, so Hogan had remained in the crypt for a second night. An amusing tradition, this 'coin toss', that the American prisoners had brought along with them to Italy; Schreiner always found it quite entertaining to bring into play when tedious yes/no decisions like this one needed to be made. This morning Hogan had another chance at getting out. Fifty-fifty. If Gruber was wrong again, they would come back down here tomorrow to try once more. Tomorrow, of course, was a long time from now. Hogan's condition inside the nearly airtight vault might be considerably changed in another twenty-four hours' time.

"This time I will say 'heads'," Gruber replied after a few seconds of thought.

Schreiner tossed the coin into the air and let it fall to the stone floor, where it pinged and bounced before coming to rest. They both bent to peer at it more closely. The one-eyed profile of Vittorio Emmanuel looked back at them. Schreiner experienced a momentary twinge of disappointment, but chose not to dwell on it. What was it the Americans sometimes said when they performed this ritual: 'you cannot win them all'? "Very well. If Hogan is alive, bring him to my office. If he's dead, put him with the two who died during the escape attempt and then report to me."


	17. Chapter 17

The heavy scraping sound just above his head, stone-on-stone, was the first thing that penetrated Hogan's semi-consciousness. It seemed to take an hour, but in reality it was only a couple of minutes before a hazy beam of yellowish light found him and he felt an invigorating wave of fresh air swirl into the confines of the crypt. The light wasn't much... just a small battery-powered flashlight... but after all that time in total darkness he couldn't bear to keep his eyes open, even as eager as he was for the light.

Next he was dragged roughly, headfirst, out of the narrow space and set on his feet. His knees nearly buckled under his own weight, but by then he'd had a few good lungfuls of fresh air, and with those came a reminder: Dowling and Drake were dead. Hate locked his knees and kept him upright... he swayed a little bit and his shoulder bounced off the nearby wall before he could recover his balance, but he kept his footing.

"So you are alive, Hogan," Gruber nodded. "Come with me."

It hardly mattered where. Hogan had a pretty good idea, but at the moment anywhere would be an improvement. He wasn't wasting any breath on a verbal reply. He wanted to save everything he had for Schreiner.

He wouldn't have been able to guess how many stairs they had to climb to reach the castel proper, but strangely he found that the more he walked, it almost became easier instead of more difficult to keep going. He had a purpose. He wouldn't have been too surprised to reach behind himself and find a huge key sticking out of his back, ready to wind up and then re-wind until he was able to get where he was going. Fine. Whatever worked.

He wasn't at all surprised when he found himself standing in front of Kommandant Schreiner's door. Gruber knocked briskly and then opened. Hogan entered without being beckoned, and kept going until he ran into one of the straight-backed wooden chairs in front of Schreiner's desk. He locked his fingers onto the carved back of the chair and hung on. He would _not_ satisfy Schreiner by dropping to his office floor like a sack of potatoes. Spite might be just about all that was keeping him on his feet, but it was a rich fuel that gave plenty of mileage. If Gruber had sounded disappointed that he was alive, Schreiner must be downright depressed about it. What better opportunity to rub his ugly nose in it?

"I warned you, Hogan," the kommandant said simply, even casually, as he looked up from his seated position behind the desk. "There will be no escapes from Castel Fiocco. If you insist on trying my patience further, you and your comrades will continue to suffer the consequences. The choice is entirely up to you."

"Two men are dead!" Hogan barely recognized his own voice; he hadn't used it much in the past couple of days.

"I'm aware of that. If you're attempting to imply that it is my fault, I must ask you to remember that you were the ones who chose to dig the escape tunnel through the drains and go down into it in the first place."

"You deliberately drowned two men!"

"If you had known about the seawater pumps, would that have stopped you from making the attempt? I think not." He studied Hogan's face for a long moment. Their eyes met and locked. Neither would look away. "You and the other prisoners here are a rare breed, Hogan. Ordinary measures that might dissuade other men from risking their lives in attempts that have no hope of success barely register in your mind, in spite of its obvious sharpness. You simply don't hear that voice trying to tell you that it's hopeless. You're completely deaf to it. That's why this castel exists, and why we are _all_ here. It is where you belong, and it is where _I_ belong. You see, I do not hear the voice either... in my case, it is trying to tell me that I perhaps should not be drowning enemy soldiers and that one day I will need to explain my actions before my God. That may be true. But Hogan, remember this: I do not hear that voice. Not ever."

"You might not hear _that_ voice, but you're gonna hear _mine_!"

"I will continue to do whatever is necessary to keep you and your companions inside these walls. You will never leave here, Hogan. One day Gruber will return you to the crypt, and on that occasion you will not return." Schreiner waved his hand, and Gruber stepped forward to take Hogan by the arm. "You may return him to his cell, Gruber."

"You're right, Schreiner. One of us probably won't leave this rock. But are you _sure_ it'll be me and not you?"

"Completely." Schreiner returned to the paperwork on his desk, and Gruber dragged Hogan towards the door to the corridor.

"Don't bet on it!"

By the time he returned to his unit, Hogan's bravado as well as his adrenalin rush had pretty much evaporated. He staggered across the room to his bunk and laid down without a word to Crittendon, who naturally couldn't have managed to be elsewhere at that moment... adding insult to injury. As for Crittendon, he did what he always did: he opened his mouth when doing so was exactly the wrong thing to do.

"Rum go, old man..." he mumbled awkwardly. He had to know about Dowling and Drake, of course... that kind of thing couldn't escape even _his_ extreme proclivity to allow unpleasant facts to pass right over his head without ever entering. And he also had to have known where Hogan had spent the past two days as well. Schreiner would have been unlikely to keep that kind of thing a secret. "I say... I, uh... dash it all, Hogan, I..."

Prone on his bunk, his head resting on his crossed arms, face down, Hogan couldn't even summon the energy to tell him to shut up. But his luck was finally about to change for the better. Robinson appeared in the doorway a moment later and gave Crittendon a meaningful look as well a firm gesture towards the corridor. With a silent nod and a crisp salute, Crittendon complied, and Robinson sat down on the pine bench next to the window. "Hogan?" When the American colonel recognized his superior's voice and attempted to rise up from the bunk, Robinson hastened to continue. "Never mind that... stay right where you are. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"I'm sorry, sir... I'm responsible... I was the senior officer on the escape..."

"Nonsense. If anyone's to blame other than Schreiner, it's me. I'm the man in charge here and I authorized the attempt in the first place." He took a deep breath. "You know what this means, of course."

Hogan nodded. "We try again..."

Robinson had already decided that Hogan was something special, even in this mix of outstanding officers at Castel Fiocco, and now he could see exactly why. Two days in an underground crypt without food or water, not knowing whether or not he would ever see the light of day again and more than likely suspecting that he wouldn't, even now barely able to lift his head up, Hogan was already talking about trying again. He was like those trick birthday candles Robinson remembered from boyhood parties... the harder you tried to blow them out, the quicker and brighter they re-lit and flamed up even higher than before. "That's right," he nodded. "But not today. Get some rest, and I'll be back in a bit with something for you to eat."

"O'Brien and the others...?"

"O'Brien, Gillespie and Matthews are all right. A bit the worse for wear, but you've got all three of them beat. You're quite unpopular with the kommandant... you've noticed that."

"I have... and I plan on being the sharpest thorn he's ever had in his side... or anywhere else on his body."

Robinson couldn't help cracking a smile. "All right. Take it easy for now. You've done your part."

"I want in on planning the next one."

"I'd have to be a fool to deny you. And speaking of fools, I'll try and interest Rodney in fiddling with his ridiculous 'wing' for a while... give you a chance to get your own back."

"Thank you, sir." Hogan had seldom meant anything more sincerely.

As soon as the door closed, Hogan put his head back down on his folded arms and tried to follow Robinson's perfectly logical suggestion to get some rest. There was nothing more he could do until he could manage to get some of his strength back. They needed another plan. A better one. A way to knock that mocking smirk right off Schreiner's face and leave him in the rear-view mirror once and for all. There had to be a way.

And he intended to find it.

oo 0 oo

Roll call. Usually mundane, often mind-numbingly dull, only very occasionally interesting. Today it was going to be interesting. The men had a big surprise for Schultz. And he wasn't going to like it.

He began, as usual, on the far right side of the two ranks of prisoners standing in front of Barracks Two, counting off each man in turn. When he reached LeBeau, he stopped. "What smells so good?"

The Frenchman produced a covered tin plate from behind his back. "I made you a strudel."

"For _me_?" The delight on his face faded as quickly as it had appeared and was replaced by a deep frown of suspicion. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Can't I just do a special enemy a small act of kindness for no reason?"

" _Nein._ I know you too well. You always have a reason!"

"You mean you don't want it?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Make up your mind!"

"Schultz," Kinch interjected, "I'll be honest with you."

" _Danke_."

"There's a man missing."

If there was anything guaranteed to make Schultz forget about an apple strudel in the immediate vicinity, that would be it. He rolled his eyes and heaved a loud sigh. " _Donnerwetter..._ "

"Listen, just make it easy on everybody and tell Klink everyone's here, okay?"

"You mean I should lie to the Kommandant?"

"Why should today be any different? Only this time it's about the count instead of the small-potatoes stuff you usually lie about. He won't check; you know he never pays attention anyway."

"Who is missing? Who?"

"It's Newkirk. He's, um... taking a little time away."

"This is a prisoner of war camp! Newkirk is not allowed to take a vacation!"

"I didn't say 'vacation', I just said he's away. For a little while. He'll be back. I hope."

Schultz shook his head so briskly that his helmet might have flown off if not for the chin strap. "I cannot tell the Kommandant that Newkirk is here if he is _not_ here."

"Okay, let me tell you exactly what happened so you'll understand everything better. See, we were..."

" _Nein_!" Schultz closed his eyes tightly, as if that would help him not hear whatever Kinch was about to say, since he had a gun in his hand and was therefore unable to jam his fingers into his ears. "I want to know _nothing_ about what happened! No- _thing_! You understand?"

"Suit yourself. So Klink'll send you outside the wire to look for him... there's a snowstorm coming in... you know he won't let you back into the camp until you find him..."

"Snow..." Schultz groaned.

Carter gave him a chummy nudge in the shoulder. "But what's a little frostbite to a big, tough German soldier like you? You'll probably never even miss a few toes."

By the time Klink had covered the distance between his office door and the formation, Schultz's decision had been made. With a bold-faced lie to his commanding officer on one side of the scale and frostbite on the other, Schultz followed both his honor and his conscience: he replied to Klink's demand for a report with the words "All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant!" The imaginary scale tipped, assisted by thoughts of the piping-hot apple strudel he would soon have his hands on, and the dilemma was over. Klink, none the wiser, turned on his heel and headed back to his office, and Schultz followed the prisoners, and the strudel, into the barracks.

"You won't regret this, Schultz," LeBeau assured him as he provided him with a knife, fork and napkin at the table.

"I probably will," Schultz disagreed. "But not until _after_ the strudel. At least I can do my regretting on a full stomach." LeBeau removed the cover of the tin plate with a flourish, and all Schultz's high hopes were realized... it was, as ever, a perfect pastry that awaited him. " _Wun-der-bar!_ "

"Dig in, Schultz, you earned it."

He didn't need to be told twice. "When will Newkirk be back?" he asked around the first mouthful, not sounding sincerely interested. "What I mean is, if he will also be away tomorrow, maybe there might be another strudel?"

"You don't sound like you even care where he is anymore," Carter chuckled.

"Yes, and no." He took a second substantial bite. "I like the Englander. I might even miss him once in a while."

At that very moment, a faint yet audible voice, crackling with static, emerged from the footlocker next to Carter's bunk. " _Oi! It's me! Anybody there?_ "

"In fact," Schultz went on, still busy chewing, "I can almost hear his voice... isn't that funny?"

Funny was a matter of opinion. It wasn't at _all_ funny that Newkirk had selected this moment to try and connect with them via the walkie-talkie that he'd taken from Carter just before everything at the anti-aircraft emplacement had gone seriously wrong... but that was exactly what was happening; the other handset was in Carter's footlocker, it was set on receive, and it was receiving just fine... even a little _too_ well. Carter immediately sat down on the lid, hoping his weight would muffle the sound, but it still came through.

" _The least you blokes can do is bleedin' answer me!"_

"I'll make you another strudel tomorrow, Schultz, I promise," LeBeau told him in a voice a little more loud than the one he normally spoke in, and very close to the sergeant's right ear. "On one condition."

"Anything."

"You take that one back to the sergeant's barracks with you now, and finish it there."

"That is no problem." He scooped up the plate, the cutlery and the napkin without a second's hesitation and headed for the door. "I hope Newkirk takes his time. Wherever he is."

They barely waited for the barracks door to close before they all piled onto the footlocker, grabbing for the walkie-talkie. Kinch won; his football days weren't that far behind him. "Newkirk? What's going on? Where are you?"

" _I'm on the boardwalk at Brighton Pier; where d'you think?_ "

"What happened? You were supposed to be right behind us."

" _I got slowed up and they caught up with me. Good thing I was in uniform; they took me for one of the nasties and put me to work cleanin' up the mess Carter made_."

"Sorry..." Carter offered.

" _I'll deal with you later. Right now, I'm lookin' for a way to get outta here, but it might take a while. Security's bloody tight 'round here; they barely take their eyes off. As soon as I can make a break for it, I will_."

Kinch nodded. "Okay, but be careful."

" _I'd've never thought of that... no wonder the guv'nor put you in charge._ "

Now he was pushing it. "Keep us posted. But try not to do it when Schultz is sitting right here."

" _There ain't no tellin' when I'll get another chance. These Krauts are mighty jumpy after last night._ "

"Don't take any unnecessary risks. If you see a way to make a break for it, take it and just come back in through the emergency tunnel. They don't know you're gone so there aren't any extra patrols outside the wire. We got Schultz to overlook the light count this morning, so we'll just keep feeding him. Hopefully that'll hold him until you get back."

" _Don't go givin' me bunk away. I like that one by the door_."

"It's yours for keeps, don't worry. We'll see you soon."

" _Right_." Newkirk didn't sound all that convinced that it _would_ be anytime soon. " _Over an' out_."


	18. Chapter 18

Twenty-four hours later, one stubborn American colonel was back on his feet and slowly circling the exercise yard for the allotted hour. A heavy mist hung in the warm air and the sky was dark with clouds threatening more rain later on, but it was about a million percent better than the crypt had been, and in spite of the unsettled weather there was no place he would rather have been than outside.

It was a remarkable day for another reason: Schreiner stood on the balcony outside his office, looking down and watching Hogan's every move. That had never happened before in the time Hogan had been at the castel. Whatever had made the kommandant feel the need to have his presence advertised on this particular day, Hogan did his best not to show that he even noticed. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, right between the shoulderblades of the man in front of him, and kept walking. If Schreiner wanted to attract his attention, he'd have to be doing something more interesting. Like choking on his lunch.

They were all pretty soggy by the time the hour was up and they headed back inside. O'Brien, dry as a bone, was waiting for Robinson in their room, and Robinson motioned to Hogan to join them. "What's up?"

"While Schreiner was out on the balcony, I had a chance to get a quick look at his mail. Pretty standard stuff, but you wanted to keep current. There's a new prisoner from Stalag Eight coming in Thursday, and then another munitions ship due in the day after."

"What's this about munitions?" Hogan asked.

"Every so often ships loaded with weaponry come in through the harbor. They connect with a rail system not too far from the coast, and from there the war materials are dispersed to the front."

"I don't know much about shipping, but this doesn't strike me as much of a harbor."

Robinson nodded. "True. It's a very narrow channel, and the weather is, as you've already seen, fairly nasty much of the time. That's why the lighthouse is maintained by the German forces here, under Schreiner's direct supervision... not for those small dinghies coming in from the beach bringing new prisoners, but for the shipping vessels approaching the shore. It's a bit tricky... they almost lost one a couple of months back. Grand viewing from the upper windows that day, watching it nearly founder. With not much going on 'round here, we try never to miss a good show."

"Imagine how much fun it would be to watch one _not_ make it," Hogan mused.

"Well, that's certainly what we always hope for, particularly since per none other than Reichsmarshal Göring himself, Schreiner's personally responsible for everything that happens both on and around this island. No luck as yet."

"Maybe we need to make our own luck."

"What's that?"

"Nothing yet... but let me think about it a while."

"You're surely not thinking about sabotage."

"I'm _always_ thinking about sabotage... call it a hobby." It wouldn't bring Dowling and Drake back, but it would sure be a swift kick in the pants to the Axis war effort if there were some way to make sure at least one ship loaded with weapons didn't get through. He'd never tried taking out a ship before... back at landlocked Stalag 13 it was mostly trains and convoys that got the Hogan treatment, and of course back then he'd always had his tried and tested crew backing him up. Here was a brand-new concept, and nobody who'd ever done anything like it before to help it all come together. It didn't seem very promising.

Hogan liked two things most of all: pretty girls, and challenges. He wasn't likely to get the first one anytime soon, so he figured he might as well set himself to working on the second.

oo 0 oo

Carter, the eternal optimist, arrived for his audience with Colonel Klink the next morning with his usual open mind and willingness to start from square one... again. It hadn't taken Klink too long to start avoiding his own office at the time he customarily planned a little schnapps break, as soon as he'd realized that Carter was aiming for that time. After that, Carter had taken the scattershot approach and started showing up at odd moments hoping for the best. Often he was able to take up at least a few minutes of the kommandant's valuable time, and although they never really seemed to get anywhere, Carter strongly felt that it was the duty of the senior prisoner to keep the lines of communication open... even when the only words communicated were "get out and stay out".

Fraulein Hilda wasn't at her desk, so Carter moved toward the door to the inner office to knock. Before he had a chance, the door swung open and Schultz stood there, looking none too happy... and he normally looked happier on his way _out_ of the Kommandant's office than he did going _in._

"Hi, Schultz." Schultz didn't bother with a reply, just closed the door to the inner office shaking his head. "Something wrong?"

"I just did six hours on guard duty without a break, and now I have to go all the way into Hammelburg to do someone _else's_ work for them. How's _that_ for something wrong?"

"Tough break."

"Even worse, I haven't had time to pick up my strudel today from the Cockroach... will you ask him to keep it warm for me?"

"Sure I will."

" _Danke_."

"What time do you think you'll be back?"

"Who knows? They say it's a big mess that needs to be cleaned up and they're requesting extra guards to help out until it's finished. But nobody from the anti-aircraft installation ever comes here to help _us_ out."

"True," Carter nodded. "Well, you can be the bigger man... in more ways than one."

"Jolly joker."

Schultz continued his dejected, flat-footed trudge towards the motor pool, and Carter knocked crisply on the door to the inner office. He heard Klink shout "Come!" which most likely meant he didn't know who it was that had knocked, and pushed the door open. "Hi, Kommandant. Got a few minutes?"

But then Carter stopped in his tracks when the exchange he'd just had with Schultz finally sunk in. _Hammelburg. Big mess. Anti-aircraft installation._

"Oh, boy..."

"Sergeant Carter, I'm extremely busy!" Klink snapped.

Carter slammed the door. It had nothing to do with Klink's reaction. Schultz was on his way to the anti-aircraft battery in Hammelburg... to help _Newkirk_ clean up after the explosion. "I gotta tell Kinch."

oo 0 oo

The installation was obvious on approach, even a quarter-mile away. The heavy stench of burned fuel still hung heavy in the air, and it was almost enough even to cancel out Schultz's perpetually active appetite. He'd never imagined that a day would come where Stalag 13 smelled much better than someplace else.

He reported to the heavily-armed guard at the front gate, now doubled in size from the pre-explosion detail, and immediately found himself and the motorbike he'd arrived on very thoroughly searched. The burned-out generator near the fence and the nearby scorched buildings with curled and melted paint peeling off and dripping from the clapboards was more than adequate reasoning as to why – nobody carrying so much as an oversized cigarette lighter was likely to gain access to that base after what had gone on here the other night. Schultz had nothing more volatile than a corned-beef sandwich on him, which earned him a disapproving glare from the gate guard, but they did let him pass. Too bad. If he'd had it to do over again, he might have been able to plan ahead and bring along some contraband instead, then return to Stalag 13 and explain with a shrug that they wouldn't allow him to pass. What could they expect him to do, argue with an armed guard?

The first thing he noticed on the inside were rows of metal barrels lined up next to the charred area by the fence, and a matching row of unhappy enlisted men scraping up shovelfuls of oily black earth and dumping it into the barrels. Before he could even ask where he was supposed to begin, a young lieutenant thrust a greasy shovel into his hands. Well, they might make him work, but they wouldn't be able to make him like it... he tentatively scooped up an insignificant amount of the black substance covering the ground and took his time dumping it into the nearest barrel. "How long have you been doing this?" he asked a sergeant working alongside.

" _Too_ long," the man replied. "Don't worry, there's plenty left for you, and anyone else they can find."

"They should be getting prisoners of war to do this kind of work. We have more than enough of them at Stalag 13."

"You would allow Allied prisoners in here after this act of sabotage?"

"I have my _own_ work. _I_ would allow anybody in here who has a strong back and nothing better to do."

"Then I wish _you_ were in charge."

Nearby, one Allied prisoner with a strong back and nothing better to do froze in mid-stance, his shovel dripping with black muck. No. It couldn't be. But was there anybody else in the whole of Germany who sounded like that? Newkirk risked a glance to his left, and saw just exactly what he did _not_ want to see.

Schultz. Not ten feet away. A bad day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

Newkirk grabbed a handful of the grime from his shovel and hastily smeared it over his cheeks and forehead. He thought he was probably plenty dirty enough already to avoid being recognized, but he didn't care to take any chances. What was _Schultz_ , of all people, doing _here?_

oo 0 oo

The lighthouse on the point wasn't very big... maybe a hundred feet high on the land-bound side, where it was attached to the castel by a high peaked roof. It didn't seem to be in the best of repair... rather than a steady flash each time the light circulated, it almost seemed to be sending out a Morse code character. _Dah-dit-dit_ , one long followed by two short. The letter D. Over and over again.

Hogan could see the light from the window of his and Crittendon's cell, and that night lying on his bunk he watched it for a long time, idly letting his mind wander while a list of words starting with D piled up in his mind.

 _Dowling. Drake. Digging. Drain. Drowned. Dead._

He really did have a one-track mind, he was forced to admit to himself as the letter D flashed on and on in the night, without anyone likely paying any attention to it at all except himself.

 _Darkness. Damage._

What made it uneven like that, one long beam and two short ones? Out of balance? If it wasn't working right, why didn't they repair it? Not enough ships in the area for it to be very important in the grand scheme of things in this part of the war? Or were those ships looking for that distinctive uneven flash to confirm their position?

What would happen if they didn't see it?

 _Disable. Destroy._

He was an Army Air Corps officer in the midst of a whole lot of other men with similar background and training – what were the chances of finding a Navy man around here who could fill in a few of the many gaping holes in his knowledge of seafaring?

 _Definitely. Determined._

It seemed that Hogan wasn't the only guy with a one-track mind in this place. In the top bunk, Crittendon, who had been asleep for over two hours, turned onto his side murmuring "Escape... escape... escape..."

 _Dummy._

The answer was the lighthouse. Hogan was sure of it. He fell asleep before he could be one hundred percent sure what the question was, but he knew he was getting there. Just fill in some missing pieces in the puzzle, and then he might have a big surprise in store for Kommandant Schreiner.

 _Dishonor. Discredit. Die._


	19. Chapter 19

_"Chimney Sweep callin' Papa Bear!"_

Well, that had to be Newkirk. This time it didn't surprise anybody. Same voice, same walkie-talkie, same impatient urgency in the tone. Besides all that, they now knew what Carter had learned from Schultz earlier that morning, and they'd pretty much been waiting for him to call. There had even been a couple of side bets as to exactly how long it would take him.

"Papa Bear to Chimney Sweep", Kinch replied in a measured, even tone. "Nice code name, by the way."

 _"If you could see me now, you wouldn't wonder why I picked it! Ol' Schultz showed up here not an hour ago!"_

"Yeah, we know. Carter heard it straight from the horse's mouth. We tried to reach you but your radio was turned off."

 _"That's all I need on top of everythin' else; tryin' to explain an American voice comin' outta me pocket!"_

"Did Schultz see you?"

 _"There ain't no way he recognized me, but I can't dodge him forever, y'know. The way me luck's been runnin' I wouldn't be at all surprised to see him back here tomorrow."_

"I guess you've already realized he could be your ticket back to Stalag 13."

 _"I wouldn't be so sure about that; how d'you figure I'd explain bein' in a German uniform? That's good for a hangin' last time I checked, and it could get_ _both_ _our tickets punched if we was caught."_

"You might want to think about it."

 _"With the security they got 'round here there ain't no way he could slip me past the front gate even if he wanted to. I gotta keep doin' whatever I can to stay out of his way."_

"Good luck."

 _"Oh, that fills me with confidence, that does. Churchill himself should be so inspirin'."_

"If you think you can..."

 _"Wait... I think I hear somethin'."_ There was a pause, then a quick _"Chimney Sweep out."_

The sudden disconnection was a bit unnerving. "That didn't sound so good," LeBeau shook his head slowly.

"Better safe than sorry. We'll hear from him again soon."

Newkirk had barely managed to get the walkie-talkie turned off and stuffed back into his overcoat pocket when the heavy footsteps he thought he'd heard approaching the enlisted men's quarters reached the doorway. "You there... I was ordered to spend the night; which of these bunks is not taken?"

Schultz. Large as life and looking straight at him. Newkirk yanked his helmet down halfway over his face, tipped his head down, and pointed to the farthest corner of the room without even looking in the appropriate direction. "Over there," he replied in what he hoped was nothing like his real voice.

"That's what I call a warm welcome," Schultz grumbled. "It would hurt you to be a little friendly?" He crossed the room to the indicated corner and sat down on the last bunk in the row. The frame groaned under his weight. "What a day... I'll sleep like a stone tonight."

Newkirk was already perfectly sure of one thing: he himself would hardly dare close his eyes between now and dawn.

oo 0 oo

"You want _what_?"

It was obvious from Robinson's tone that he didn't believe he'd heard Hogan correctly. He wasn't sure hearing it a second time would clear anything up, but it was all he could think of to do at the moment.

"Mirrors," Hogan repeated. "A _lot_ of 'em. The more the better. Any size. Even broken is fine; we can patch them together into something that'll do the job." The idea that had come to him first thing that morning when he'd awakened was still fresh, still half-formed, but his thoughts had somehow come together between the night before and this morning, and he was once again feeling like his old self. His Kraut-hating old self, to be specific. It was back now, and running on overdrive. Almost like the good old days back at Stalag 13. Except here, he had to ask permission.

Robinson nodded slowly. "I see... and just exactly what _is_ the 'job', as you call it?"

Hogan still couldn't quite believe the answer had been there the whole time. "We need to move that lighthouse there..." He pointed across the enclosed exercise yard to the lighthouse at the far end of the castel, only the very top of which was visible over the high wall. "Over to there." Here he shifted his index finger across the roofline of the castel and indicated a spot a hundred yards to the left , which also happened to be their barracks wing. "That ought to be far enough, based on what you've said about the last ship that almost didn't make it through that narrow channel, and what I was able to find out from a couple of the fellas here who have some navigation experience."

"I don't mind admitting that I don't follow you, Hogan."

"Actually I don't blame you; this idea is a little out there. But I'm pretty sure it could work, if we can just move that light."

" _Move_ the _light_?" It was all Robinson could do to manage to keep his voice down; none of this made any sense, and his repeating everything Hogan said wasn't helping matters any at all. Hearing everything twice was just making him twice as confused, rather than actually clearing anything up. "That tower weighs several hundred ruddy tons!"

"Well, really just make it _look_ like it moved... we don't actually have to move the whole lighthouse."

Robinson nodded a bit numbly, feeling a little like he was humoring a madman until he could determine the best way to overpower him. Maybe Hogan had been in that crypt too long... lack of oxygen to the brain... been pushed past his breaking point. Every man had one; there was no shame in it. "Well... that's certainly a bit of good news..."

"That's what the mirrors are for. I'm sorry, sir; I know I'm jumping ahead of myself, and not everything I've worked out in my head is making it into this conversation. I think we should give it a try, but it all depends on the mirrors."

"Well, I suppose I can ask the fellows to spread out and see what they can scrounge up, for a start. That can't hurt. But, Hogan..."

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll need a lot more from you before I'll go authorizing whatever this scheme of yours is. I'm responsible for these chaps and I don't intend to lose any more of them."

"I understand. Let's see what we can come up with, then, and I'll try and make my thoughts a little more coherent next time we talk."

Another slow, confused nod from Robinson. "I'd appreciate that. I truly would."

oo 0 oo

If it wasn't one thing, it was another. They just couldn't seem to catch a break. It was bad enough that Schultz was overnighting at the installation - probably just a few heartbeats away from discovering that Newkirk was working right next to him wearing a German uniform - but there was no strudel in the world that would be enough to tempt any of the regular by-the-book guards to look the other way when a prisoner was missing.

Kinch was beginning to feel like a cheap nightclub magician required to pull endless rabbits out of a seemingly bottomless hat. Just when he was sure the very last bunny had been extracted, though, by some miracle yet another one would somehow be there when he reached his hand in yet again. He had no idea how long his luck would hold, but by his own conservative estimate, he'd already pushed this lounge act about as far as it could possibly go.

"This was a good idea," Carter said for at least the third time, as the two of them stood over LeBeau's shoulder watching him painstakingly attempt to forge Klink's signature at the bottom of an official-looking document.

"I wouldn't get too confident yet," LeBeau countered. He didn't look up, just kept carefully moving the pen smoothly across the paper, trying not to leave any telltale hesitation marks. "I don't know how convincing this will look. Newkirk is the forger, remember?"

"My bet is that you can forge better than Newkirk can cook," Kinch said. "Do your best."

The final flourish on the final 'k' in 'Klink', and LeBeau sat back in his chair to get a better overall look at his effort. " _Pas mal_ ," he shrugged, hoping for agreement.

In truth, Kinch admitted to himself, Newkirk would have done a better job. "Let's hope he doesn't look at it too closely."

"Maybe we should smash his monocle," Carter suggested.

"Do you think you could do better?" LeBeau thrust the pen in Carter's direction. " _Eh bien, vas-y!"_

"We don't have time for this." Kinch briskly fanned the wet ink with his hat. "Roll call's in less than an hour. Carter, you know what to do."

"Right. I slip this onto Klink's desk before roll call, underneath some other stuff so it looks like he misplaced it."

"Not _too_ deep; it has to look like it just happened."

"Got it."

 _One more rabbit. Just let there be_ _one_ _more rabbit in this hat._ That was Kinch's last thought before the sound of Langenscheidt's whistle sounded shrilly from outside in the compound. "Okay… here goes nothin'."

The record for the slowest formation in Stalag 13 history was likely set that day. While Carter sprinted down the tunnel, up through the exit to Klink's quarters, then over to his office to drop off the document LeBeau had just signed, the rest of the prisoners deliberately took their sweet time shuffling out of the barracks, lining up, deciding they were in the wrong place, shifting position, bumping into one another, and lining up all over again, like a cluster of sleepwalkers. Langenscheidt, nearly beet-red with the effort of constantly blowing the whistle plus the thought of what the Kommandant would do to him if the prisoners weren't lined up and waiting by the time he called for the report, fought to establish order in the ranks. It was clearly a losing battle.

In the midst of this furniture-free game of Musical Chairs, Carter finally burst out of the barracks, breathless, and claimed his own regular spot in the line-up. He couldn't even reply in words when Kinch and LeBeau asked him if everything was in place; all he could do was nod, make a few unclear hand signals, and fight to catch his breath.

As Klink approached the formation, Langenscheidt stuffed the whistle in his pocket and snapped a salute. Klink barely acknowledged him. "Report!"

The corporal had his mouth open to say what he usually said when asked for his report… "All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant"... but to his horror he suddenly realized that wasn't the case at all. There, in the front row, was an empty spot where a prisoner should be standing.

"Well, Corporal?" Klink pressed.

"Herr… Herr Kommandant…"

 _Fabelhaft._ Just when he thought no one could be as inept as Schultz, something like this had to happen and prove him wrong. Clearly Langenscheidt was a step below even Schultz's alarmingly low standards. "Langenscheidt, I said I want a report! You do know what a report is, don't you?"

" _Jawohl…_ " he stammered.

"Then may I have one?"

" _Jawohl…_ "

" _Today_?"

"There is… a prisoner missing, Herr Kommandant…"

"You see? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Klink turned on his heel to head back to his office. "Dis-missed!" After only two steps, what he had just been told finally sank in, and he whirled back around to face the formation. "What did you say?"

Langenscheidt gestured weakly towards the assembled men. "There are only thirteen prisoners… one of them is missing..."

Klink's jaw dropped. " _Missing_?"

Kinch stepped forward. "Excuse me, Colonel Klink, but there's nothing to be alarmed about."

" _Nothing_ to be _alarmed_ about? One of my prisoners is missing and you don't think I should be _alarmed_?"

"You mean Newkirk? He's not missing, sir; he's in the cooler."

"Impossible! There are no prisoners in the cooler at this time!"

"Newkirk was giving Schultz a hard time the other night in the barracks at lights-out and you said a couple of days in the cooler would teach him a lesson, remember?"

"Right," LeBeau pitched in. "With Schultz gone it's probably harder to keep track of little things like that. Carter, _you_ remember when the Kommandant signed the order and Schultz took Newkirk to the cooler." No answer. LeBeau elbowed him hard in the side. "Carter, _remember_?"

Carter nodded, still out of breath. "Uh huh…" he wheezed.

" _I_ signed the order…?" Klink turned to his very confused corporal. "Langenscheidt, what do you know about this?"

Langenscheidt had been more than happy to let the prisoners do all the talking up to this point. One of the things he had picked up from Schultz was that sometimes it was best to simply stand to one side and let the chips fall where they may. He had absolutely no recollection of the Englander either giving Schultz any trouble in the barracks recently or of having heard any talk amongst the other guards about him being sent to the cooler… but he also couldn't see that admitting any of that would be in his own best interest. His shoulders gave a nearly involuntary noncommittal shrug. "I…"

"I'm sure you'll find the signed copy of your order in your office, sir," Kinch went on. "Maybe Fraulein Hilda is a little behind in her filing."

Klink pointed to his office, then at Langenscheidt. "Go! Find that order! And if you can't find it, sound the alarm and let loose the dogs! I will have answers!"

Gratefully, Langenscheidt scurried away. Nobody would be happier than he would be when Sergeant Schultz returned from his extra duty and took over responsibility for the unpredictable goings-on in Barracks Two.

He was back in less than two minutes with a crisp sheet of paper in hand, bearing the slightly shaky - and possibly still slightly damp - name of Wilhelm Klink at the bottom. "This order was on your desk, Herr Kommandant."

Klink snatched it from his hand, ran his eyes over it rapidly, and visibly relaxed. Looking a fool in front of the prisoners wasn't nearly as bad as losing one of them would have been, and he was completely content with this outcome. It wasn't as if General Burkhalter or anyone important had been there to witness his mistake. "It seems you were correct, Sergeant Kinchloe. Well, I hope Newkirk learns his lesson. He will remain in the cooler until his three days are up, and I will not entertain any requests for his early release. No exceptions will be made. Is that understood?"

It was hard for Kinch not to smile. "Perfectly, sir."


	20. Chapter 20

"This is great."

Hogan certainly sounded convinced, but the pile of large jagged mirror shards in the kitchen drawer didn't look the least bit encouraging to Robinson. "This what you had in mind, then?"

Hogan nodded. "We'll need more, but it's a good start."

"Well, the fellows are still on the prowl. Charlie sounds determined to get his hands on Schreiner's shaving mirror as a trophy, and I think he's taking it as a personal challenge. I for one wouldn't bet against him." Well, no use putting it off any longer. "It's time for me to ask you for those details you promised me, Hogan. I can't allow this to go any further until I know more about what's going on in your head. A bit of pack-ratting to play dodge'em with the guards is good sport and all, but…"

"I won't say it'll be easy, sir, but I think I can at least outline it so it makes some kind of sense." The heavy butcher-block table in front of them was wide open and bare; Hogan soon fixed that by scattering a thin layer of flour over half of it. "The lighthouse is here." He traced a rough representation in the flour with his index finger. "And _here…_ " Off to the left he traced another boxy outline, nearly on the same level. "Is our barracks wing on the top level of the castel. The roofline right below us is on about the same level as the dome of the lighthouse, which is attached to the far side of the same structure. With me so far?"

Robinson nodded. "So far."

"Okay. What I want to do is reassemble all those bits and pieces of mirror, mount them on top of our roof, block out about two-thirds of the glass on the ocean side of the lighthouse dome, and reflect the light from right _here_ …" He indicated the lighthouse with a left-facing arrow. "... over to the mirrors _here_."

Robinson realized his mouth was open a bit, and he closed it. Hogan's reputation for creativity certainly hadn't been an exaggeration… the American was either an unparalleled genius, or completely barmy. "Good heavens, man..."

"From the vantage point of any approaching ships, I figure it'll look like the light is about a hundred yards to the west of its actual location. From what I understand about the channel, that should be enough to make it alter its course and run aground… and if we're lucky, there won't be much left to salvage if the seas are rough enough to pull it all out with the tide. That'll be one less shipment of ordnance that'll make it to the front, and if it's big enough mess maybe they'll decide to discontinue the use of this port altogether. Any chance we've got to make it harder for them to bring in arms is another step closer to ending the war."

"And… you actually think this might _work_?"

Hogan folded his arms pensively and surveyed his finger-painting in flour. Sometimes he had trouble convincing _himself_ of these types of untested capers. What had sounded pretty good inside his own head that morning wasn't looking all that convincing when done up in an actual diagram, especially as crude as this one was. "Well… we used to sabotage, wreck, and derail trains and convoys all the time, and it usually went like clockwork, but this _is_ my first ship. I'm sure there are a few details I haven't ironed out yet."

"The devil's in the details, as they say." For not the first time since he'd ended up as the senior Allied officer on this remote rock, Robinson found himself at an impasse. He didn't hold out much hope for Hogan's lighthouse-moving scheme, even now that it had been made clear that moving the actual structure wasn't his game. There were _so_ many things that could go wrong… how did all those things stack up against the fairly remote possibility that this would actually work, and that they might manage to scuttle one of the Nazis' supply ships? It would be a nice boost to the ego, true enough… not to mention a fitting tribute to the memory of Dowling and Drake… but would it be worth the risk to the still-living? "How do you propose to block out the real light?"

"That's one of those details I haven't ironed out yet," he admitted.

"I'll have to chew it over a while, Hogan. No harm in the men continuing to collect bits of mirror here and there, but that's all I'll sanction at present."

"I understand, sir. But there _is_ a supply ship coming in the day after tomorrow."

Robinson nodded. "I'm aware of that. It just might not be _your_ ship that's coming in, at least not this time. I'll let you know when I've made my decision."

Even if Hogan had thought pushing his case any harder would help… and he didn't… Crittendon would have derailed him as soon as he entered the kitchen, glancing furtively over his shoulder to see if he were being observed. "Just one for dinner tonight?" Hogan inquired. "Table near the window okay? I'll send your waitress right over with a menu."

Crittendon took one more cautious, thorough glance behind him. "I can't understand it. Haven't spotted a guard on my tail in days. Thick on the ground, normally… makes no blasted sense at all."

Actually Hogan knew that it did, but Crittendon would never understand it. The guards weren't bothering to follow him around because they already knew that whatever he might be up to posed no threat whatsoever to the security of Castel Fiocco. He was the only prisoner able to roam the corridors at will, day in and day out, without attracting the least bit of unwanted attention, and he also had to be the only one they couldn't even trust to gather up a few simple pieces of glass without doing something stupid to foul up the whole operation, so he couldn't even help them. What a waste. Oh, Hogan wouldn't say he hadn't been tempted to try him for something this deceptively simple, but in the end it was just too much of a risk. Crittendon already had enough natural bad luck without adding broken mirrors on top of it, and they couldn't chance having his misfortune spill over onto what was now the only workable plan they had to throw a monkey wrench into Schreiner's machine.

 _Only workable plan._ The words rang ominously in his mind. And it centered on something he had never done before. Hogan couldn't blame Robinson for not leaping for joy over it; he himself was growing more dubious by the minute. Did he really have any chance at all of pulling this off? He liked his odds for successfully blowing up railroad bridges a whole lot better, but those were in short supply in this neighborhood and his repertoire would need to be expanded if he had any hope of keeping himself out of mothballs until the war ended. So far the only boat he'd ever dealt with had been Klink's floating officer's club… that had gone off without a hitch, but he himself had never actually been anywhere near the water and had depended on others to come up with most of the necessary expertise in building and moving the boat. This idea to wreck the supply ship was his, and his alone. If it flopped, the repercussions would all be on him.

Crittendon switched gears, something he was pretty good at, rubbed his hands together and sidled over to Robinson and Hogan. "Nearly done with the hang-glider, you know." He angled his chin in the direction of his concealed wing. "Can't wait for you to see it in action."

"Right… I can't wait either," Hogan agreed without a morsel of sincerity. The best outcome Crittendon could hope for would be not dashing himself to bits on the rocks below, but it had been proven time and time again that there was simply no chance of talking him out of the attempt, and nobody had the time, patience, or inclination to keep trying. He was pretty sure the Italian phrase to describe it was _che serà serà_ … what will be, will be.

"Should be out of here and free as a bird by the end of the week. All that's still to do is decide where best to launch from." Crittendon turned his attention to the diagram on the tabletop. "What's all this, then?"

"Oh, just a spill." Hogan used the edge of a breadboard to scrape the sprinkled flour back into the bin. "What's that you were saying about launching?" Nothing like feigning interest to divert attention. It had always worked on Klink.

"Need to find just the right spot for it. But once I've made that determination, all I need is a brisk tailwind and I'll be off to the mainland. Could be any night now. I only wish I could take both of you chaps with me."

"Perish the thought," Robinson replied, just short of making it an order. "That's _your_ egg to hatch, Rodney, and you know how we operate 'round here… one man's victory belongs to every other man, if only in spirit."

"I shall depart with that in mind, sir." He saluted. "I thank you."

"Don't mention it." _And I mean that._

With a homemade hang glider and a drawer half full of broken glass as the only two ideas anyone around here had at the moment as far as striking back at their captors, Robinson couldn't help but wonder one thing: which of his cellmates was really crazier than the other? From Robinson's perspective at that moment, it appeared to be a dead heat.

oo 0 oo

There were two things Newkirk never wanted to see again: shovels and barrels. At the moment, he'd had more than his share of both. Oh… one more thing. He never wanted to see Schultz in the same barracks with him again, ever.

Last night had been a horror show. It wasn't bad enough trying to keep out of the sergeant's sight the whole time everyone was awake, but after lights-out and they'd all hit their bunks for the night had come the worst yet: the snoring. Having done a considerable amount of time in a barracks already, and that time being spent with many different chaps, Newkirk had seen and heard plenty, but nothing like Schultz's snoring. It could have shattered windows five hundred feet away. He didn't think he'd closed his own eyes more than a few minutes all night long, and he was dead on his feet.

So, when the duty sergeant had seen him shoveling oily residue into a wheelbarrow because the last empty barrel out in the compound had been filled, he'd taken severe exception to the dressing-down he'd received and the orders to go get some more empty ones from the storage area. That was where he was at the moment, taking advantage of a few private moments away from his Kraut baby-minders to try and touch base with the others back at Stalag 13. He crouched in a corner with the radio and spoke into it as loudly as he dared. "Chimney Sweep callin' Papa Bear! Do you read me?" No immediate reply. "Papa Bear, come in!" Still nothing.

The sound of someone else rattling the supply room door brought him up short. He switched the walkie-talkie off and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Safe enough? Maybe not. If anyone caught him with that radio, there would be no explaining it. And if it was that plonker of a sergeant on his way in, radio or not he'd likely get extra duty for taking too long. With that in mind, Newkirk did the only thing that occurred to him: he popped the lid off one of the empty barrels and climbed inside, crouching down low enough to be able to balance the lid on top. If they couldn't find him, they couldn't put the touch on him. Simple as that.

Schultz entered the supply room as always: heavy on his feet. That other sergeant, the loud-mouth… he was more annoying than an O _ffizier._ Who told him he was boss, anyway? The way he'd berated Schultz just now, like it was _his_ fault there were no more empty barrels… or that the full wheelbarrow was his fault. He knew no- _thing_ about the _dummkopf_ who had filled it up with oily sand, but now it was _his_ job to fix it.

He shoved the heavy wheelbarrow ahead of him, maneuvering it with some difficulty through the narrow doorway. First a long night away from his own bed, now this. He was beginning to think that it didn't really matter who won the war, as long as it was _over,_ and _soon._

The line of empty barrels seemed to mock him. They would probably have to fill _all_ of these up before the job was done, and it seemed endless. He started to try and muscle the first barrel in the line towards him, then stopped, surprised at how heavy it was. Was this one already full? Had some other _dummkopf_ put it back with the empty ones? Couldn't _anybody_ do anything right? He gave it a frustrated kick with the side of his boot, then popped the loose lid off the top of the heavy barrel… it nearly _fell_ off... and peered inside.

The startled face of the Englander Newkirk looked up at him. It might have been an even bet which one of them looked _more_ startled. "Um… hi, Schultzie… fancy meetin' you 'ere…"

"Newkirk…?"

"Uh… yeah… it's me, all right…"

Schultz's face broke into a wide grin. " _H_ _ere_ you are!"

"Yep… here I am…"

"I have _found_ you!"

"You 'ave at that."

"The Kommandant will be so pleased!"

"Well, there's a downside to everythin'."

Schultz grasped the collar of Newkirk's overcoat and pulled him to a standing position. "You naughty boy!"

Newkirk didn't quite have time to come up with a retort for that rbefore a voice from the doorway ran both their blood cold. "Sergeant Schultz!"

Reflexively, Schultz pushed down on Newkirk's collar twice as hard as he had just pulled up on it. Newkirk didn't resist. " _Jawohl!_ "

"I ordered you to empty that wheelbarrow and bring more barrels!"

" _Jawohl…_ and I was just about to do that… but… but…"

"Now!" He pointed so there could be no chance of misinterpretation. "Empty that wheelbarrow!" Schultz began to fumble with the lid on the barrel next to the one that contained Newkirk. Maddeningly, the top that had come off the first barrel so easily was unevenly matched by this one; he struggled even to get one edge of it pried loose. "You fool, use the open one! We do not have all day!"

With reluctant, trembling hands, Schultz hefted the shovel and took up a small scoop of oily dirt. " _Jawohl…"_

 _"Schnell!"_

Neither of Schultz's options looked good, but one looked worse than the other one did. With considerable reluctance, he dropped the shovelful of oily slop into the open barrel. He didn't hear it hit the bottom… because it _hadn't_ , and he knew why. He was only hoping the sergeant wouldn't figure it out.

"Finish up in here and bring more barrels outside!" The sergeant turned on his heel and left the supply shed.

Schultz really didn't want to look, but he eventually did, after a few seconds of trying to imagine how bad it actually might be. He was greeted by the sight of Newkirk slowly getting to his feet inside the barrel, covered with muck that ran from the top of his head all the way down over his shoulders.

"Thank you…" Newkirk said, remarkably calmly under the circumstances. "I needed that."


	21. Chapter 21

It was a beautiful night for a courier plane. Overcast, no moon, harder to spot the plane from the ground, so hopefully harder to shoot it down. At least they could hope.

They heard it before they actually saw it, and Carter flashed the signal light: two longs, two shorts, then one of each. They knew the message had been received when the plane banked, and then began to circle back. That same open field had been used before for similar pick-ups, and they knew the terrain well. It would approach from the west, land as quickly as possible, and barely come to a halt long enough for them to approach with the film, transfer it, and get out of the way to allow the plane to take off again immediately.

Newkirk had once coined the phrase "stash and dash" to describe this kind of quick pick-up operation. They were trying not to think about Newkirk too much at the moment. It wouldn't do anybody any good, and it would only serve to distract them from what they were supposed to be doing: getting that film out of here and safely off to London. Just because it hadn't happened that way the last time didn't have anything to do with their best efforts not being good enough. But this war had been long enough already; they really didn't want to have to spend extra time repeating the same operation over and over again.

The Bristol Blenheim hit the field at the western end as expected and began to taxi in the direction of the treeline where they were hiding. "Okay, it's a go," Kinch said. "LeBeau, you take the point and get out there with the film. I'll be right behind you."

"What about me?" Carter asked.

"You stay here and let us know if you see any Krauts around."

"What'll I use for a signal?"

"Try a loud scream," LeBeau suggested as he took off towards the light bomber.

"Very funny."

The plane was just rolling to a stop when LeBeau approached it from the side. He was about to do the usual quick toss into the hands of the crewman who he expected would be waiting in the open doorway when he stopped short: no door.

"Up here!"

He turned toward the sound of the voice and saw the pilot gesturing to him from the cockpit. There was an open panel on the side of the windscreen, easy enough to pass film through… except it was, as he'd already noticed a moment ago, about nine feet in the air. "What do you mean, 'up there'?" he challenged. " _You_ come down _here!_ " Even as he said it, though, he knew what had to be done: he ran up to the trailing edge of the wing and took a running leap, both arms extended, hoping to grab some protrusion on the wing. No luck; his fingers found only smooth metal, and he immediately felt himself sliding backward.

Next thing he knew, he was getting a boost from below. "That had better be you, Kinch…" he muttered under his breath, taking advantage of the assistance to better his position on the wing. From there it was easy enough to get to his feet and scramble along the wing right up to the cockpit, where he pressed the pouch containing the negatives and one set of the prints Carter had made into the pilot's outstretched hand.

"Thanks."

" _De rien._ But next time come in a plane that has steps. A rope ladder. _Something_."

The young pilot chuckled. "This one works great at drive-in movies… I can hang the speaker on the window."

The sudden distant crack of a pistol shot startled the Frenchman, but not nearly as much as the ensuing fusillade of machine-gun fire did. The pistol might be Carter firing an alert; the machine gun definitely wasn't. Without even a _bon voyage,_ LeBeau slid back down the wing and dove off, immediately flattening himself out on the ground and covering his head with his crossed arms so the plane's tail wouldn't clip him as it accelerated for takeoff. As soon as he was sure it was safe to do so, he leapt to his feet and began to run back towards the trees for cover.

He and Kinch made it back to the rendezvous point at almost the exact same moment. Only one thing had changed since they'd last been there two minutes ago. "Carter!" Kinch called as loud as he dared… which admittedly wasn't very loud under the circumstances. "Carter, where are you?"

LeBeau felt his heart sink into his stomach. "Oh no… not _again_ …"

In the next moment something leaped out of the darkness and joined them in the clearing. It was awkward, it was clumsy… it was Carter. "Geez, didn't you hear my signal? The Krauts are coming this way! We gotta get outta here!"

They all heard the machine guns fire again from very close by, but this time they were shooting into the air, at the rapidly-escaping plane which had already attained a couple hundred feet of altitude. "Let's go," LeBeau urged. "They won't get him. He's already in the air."

A minute later, as they dodged trees and other obstacles on their way back to camp, they heard something else: the low-pitched, booming sound of anti-aircraft guns. "The Hammelburg battery," Kinch said, coming to a halt.

" _That_ could get the courier plane," Carter added.

" _Merci mille fois_ …" grumbled LeBeau. "Don't even _think_ it. He has the photos and he's taking them to London. We didn't spend all night… and many _other_ nights… for nothing. He _has_ to get through."

"Yeah…" Carter nodded, seemingly unconvinced, as the AA attack boomed on in the distance. "You're probably right." He turned to Kinch. "Right, Kinch?"

Their _de facto_ leader wasn't so sure. Those guns were deadly accurate; that had been proven time and time again, which was the reason why taking down the battery was of such critical importance in the first place. "We've done all we can for tonight," was all he chose to say. And that included returning to camp with both of the men he'd left it with, thankfully. "Let's get back inside the wire before those patrols think to circle back and try cutting us off from the tunnel."

In another twenty seconds, no one would ever have been able to tell that three saboteurs had ever been there. They disappeared into the cover of the surrounding forest without a trace, home free.

oo 0 oo

Kommandant Schreiner shrugged into his suspenders, positioning them on his shoulders in exactly the proper place. It was the same routine every morning. After he finished dressing and shaving, Gruber would bring him his usual breakfast on the usual tray, help him with his boots, and then the work of the day would begin. Nothing much ever changed at Castel Fiocco, and that was just exactly the way Schreiner liked it.

He passed into the plain, featureless washroom that adjoined his private quarters, picked up his shaving mug from the chipped porcelain washbasin with one hand and his ivory-handled boars-bristle shaving brush with the other, and raised his head to the mirror above the sink.

Instead of his own face ready for lather, he saw nothing but a solid pine board on the wall above the basin.

His eyes immediately went to the floor below. Had the mirror fallen? Shattered? No. There wasn't as much as a single shard of glass on the slate floor.

" _Was ist los..._?"

oo 0 oo

Major Wood unfolded the packet fashioned with a threadbare blanket to reveal what it was wrapped around. "What do you think of that, Freddy?" he asked with pride, already clearly confident of the answer.

Schreiner's shaving mirror glinted in the rays of early-morning sun that reached in through the window. "My word…" Robinson said, clearly impressed. "And in one piece, yet. However did you manage it?"

"It set me a bit of a challenge."

"I'm sure of that."

"A wonder it's lasted this long without shattering, with Schreiner's kisser staring into it every morning."

"Probably stopped its share of clocks as well."

Hogan heard their good-natured banter… he could hardly help it, since he was standing right there… but the insults directed at their kommandant's face weren't of much interest to him. This was progress… _real_ progress. However Wood had managed it, this was exactly what he had been hoping for. The growing collection of mirror shards, most of them of fairly respectable size, was good… but this was even better. And the substantial amount of heavy canvas that some of the other officers had turned up in the repair shop was needed as well. He had the perfect use for it.

"And there's this as well." With an equal amount of pride, Wood held up three perfect small circles of glass. "As long as I was in his quarters and all. Schreiner's spare pair of reading glasses, and his magnifier. I thought we might be able to fashion a telescope; might help our chances during the mission."

"I'm awfully glad you're on _our_ side, Charlie. You've obviously been spending far too much time with Hogan; it's starting to rub off."

"Gentlemen…" Hogan nodded, "I think it's time to move on to the next step in Operation Wrong Turn. We've got a boat to catch." Then, bringing himself up short, he remembered to defer to Robinson. "With your permission, sir." Almost lost his head there for a moment… he'd nearly forgot he wasn't in charge here. Old habits were indeed hard to break.

"All right, then, Hogan," Robinson nodded. "What is it that you've got up your sleeve as a next move? I'm listening."

"Well… here's where it gets a little tricky."

"Hogan, I'd be willing to bet good money that 'tricky' is your middle name… and if it's not, it bloody well ought to be."

"I think that _was_ the first choice, but then my folks decided to go with Edward after my grandfather."

"So what do you propose?"

"I think it's time we started moving our supplies to somewhere they'll do us some actual good. After dark, when we won't be spotted."

"And how do you intend for us to do that?"

Hogan glanced toward the window. The lighthouse was nearly on a level with their room in the tower, just on the other side of the castel's roofline. There was only one way that he'd been able to calculate reaching the light. "How do you feel about heights?"


	22. Chapter 22

Newkirk shoveled black slop into the wheelbarrow, then lugged it to the row of empty barrels, then dumped it into the barrels. Over, and over, and over.

And all the while, Schultz stood nearby doing slightly less than nothing. He would lean on his shovel until another guard happened to tip a glance his way, then studiously apply himself to scooping up a tiny bit of the muck… then he would frown, shake his head, and examine the business end of the shovel as if it might somehow be out of adjustment, a precision instrument that had slipped out of working order and was in need of calibration. Meanwhile, all the work that was being done was being done by Newkirk, and he was not happy about it. Just like old times back at Stalag 13.

"That ain't a Swiss watch, y'know," he finally groused out loud when Schultz tried the same old dodge for the third time.

"Shh!" Schultz glanced around them fearfully. "You get us in trouble! You speak English because your German is terrible."

"Oh it is, is it? How's this then? _Träge_. Understand that all right, do ya?"

Schultz chuckled. "All this time in Germany and that is the best you can do?" He repeated the word in precise, perfect German… no surprise there, since he _was_ perfectly German. "You see the difference? You roll the tongue."

"I'll return the favor when the Allies march into Berlin, an' you'll be speakin' English with a German accent instead of the other way 'round. Now repeat after me: 'Don't shoot, I give up'".

"Jolly joker."

It had almost been better when he'd been alone. At least then his aggravation level had been a little lower. "We'd both get back to camp sooner if you'd give a hand, y'know."

"I am in no hurry. This is easier than walking for hours outside the fence with a heavy rifle."

"Course it is, you ain't doin' nothin'."

"Can I help it if the shovel doesn't work properly?"

"Give it here and use mine; it's workin' just great. I'll make do with that one."

"Forget it."

Newkirk lifted another shovelful of the sticky black mud. "How _do_ you figure on gettin' me back to camp, by the way?"

"How should I know? I don't even know how you got here in the first place."

"Well, I just came…"

"And I do not _want_ to know! I want to know no- _thing_!"

"Then you're off to a flyin' start, I must say."

Silence reigned for about half a minute, just long enough for Schultz to start to worry. "You mean… it is up to _me_ to bring you back to Stalag 13? Past those guards out there? Those _real_ guards?"

"Someone's gotta do it."

"Why me?"

"Who else is here?" Newkirk grinned when Schultz actually glanced around, as if he were hoping there might indeed be someone there who could offer him a way out of something he didn't want to do. "I'm one of _your_ prisoners, mate, not one of theirs… best not forget that."

"I wish I could. I wish you were not even here. I wish _I_ was not here." He thought for a moment. "Who was on duty when you escaped?"

"Now, lemme see…" Newkirk leaned thoughtfully on his shovel… if it was good enough for Schultz, it was good enough for him. "Wasn't it you?"

Schultz squeezed his eyes tightly shut. " _Donnerwetter_ … what will the Kommandant say?"

Newkirk let him twist in the wind… and a wind brisk enough to twist Schultz would be nothing less than a cyclone… for a few seconds, then spoke up. "Nah, it was Langenscheidt."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Oh, good. We find a way to get you back to camp, then."

"You're all heart… under all that blubber."

oo 0 oo

It was dark. That was good. If it hadn't been dark, it would have been much too easy to see the ground eighty feet below. This had been all Hogan's idea from the get-go, and he owned that, but he was really beginning to appreciate the fact that although he was perfectly at ease at the controls of a B-25 at 15,000 feet, he was probably more of a natural-born tunnel man when it came to sabotage.

He was considering all this while straddling the steep peak of the slate roof just below the barracks wing of the castel, inching himself along bit by bit towards the lighthouse that hadn't looked all that far away all those times he'd examined it from the ground or the nearby window. From his current position, though, it looked like it might be in the next time zone. The slate shingles didn't give much traction, either… okay for inching his way forward, sure, but not so good when trying to make sure he didn't go off-balance and careen over the side.

His mind drifted back to Stalag 13, where LeBeau had fallen off the roof. Twice. Once off the barracks in a thunderstorm, and once off the roof of Klink's office. The second time he'd somehow managed to end up caught by an unsuspecting Schultz who just happened to be passing by. But the night of the storm, he'd fallen from the barracks roof clear to the ground, and he'd been lucky he hadn't been hurt. And that was just the barracks, maybe an eight- or nine-foot drop… from Hogan's current perch to the ground was nearly ten times that distance, and there would be no picking himself up and dusting himself off if he were to fall. They'd be scooping him up in as many pieces as those mirrors they'd all been squirreling away.

And since this _had_ been his idea, he'd volunteered for the first attempt as a matter of principle. It was an offbeat plan and it had no real right to work, but it was all they had at the moment and they had to try _something_. As Robinson was fond of reminding them, an officer at Colditz had once escaped just by jumping a fence and running like blazes before the startled guards had even recognized the audacious attempt that had just happened before their very eyes. There were rumors, some unsubstantiated but others that appeared solidly grounded in fact, of other bids for escape from the infamous Colditz that had looked completely harebrained on paper but had resulted in bona fide success. So why not _this_ one? Wasn't it his turn for something to go right?

At the halfway point between the barracks window and the lighthouse was the enormous brick kitchen chimney offset from the peak of the roof, which provided a welcome place to pause before going on. Hogan lodged his left foot in the angle between the chimney and the roof, feeling on relatively solid ground for the first time since he'd crept out over the windowsill and been lowered to the roof by O'Brien and Robinson. The wind was picking up, and he wished it wouldn't, because the evening breeze was chilling the nervous sweat that ran down his back. He still had a long way to go, and even when he got over there he was only halfway finished: he would still have to make it back to the barracks wing and back in the window. By then he would be tired, stiff, and cold… not the best condition to be in when doing something this crazy and hoping to live to see the sun come up.

"Okay…" he coached himself. "Let's go… the sooner you get over there, the sooner you can start back."

He had just begun to leave the comparative shelter of the substantial chimney when a searchlight split the near-total darkness and rested squarely on the peak of the roof just ahead of him. Hogan scrambled to get back into the chimney's shadow, trying not to let the heavy pack of blackened canvas on his back overbalance him with the sudden motion. Had they spotted him from the ground? The roofline was visible from down there, but it wasn't in plain sight. He was in dark clothes, and his face was smudged with a substantial amount of that ubiquitous black volcanic sand; same stuff they'd used on the canvas to make it less visible. He had to be almost impossible to see… he hoped.

Then another sound caught his attention. An odd, muffled, flapping sound, like someone shaking out a blanket.

He ducked reflexively when he sensed something in the air close to his head. Then he saw them, in the wide arc of the spotlight. Bats. _Dozens_ of them, swooping and spiraling around in the bright light that had attracted a thick swarm of moths. It was like an air show back in the days before the war, a whole flock of barnstormers showing off for an admiring crowd. Only here, their audience of one was something less than entertained.

Hogan got down as flat as he could manage on the peak of the roof, threaded his fingers together and locked his hands behind his head for protection. What a story _this_ was going to make after the war, when some gorgeous woman at a cocktail party might ask him for some of his memories from the heat of battle. _Well_ , he'd tell her, _there was the night I got stuck on the roof of an Italian castle in the middle of a swarm of bats… but enough about me; let's talk about you._

"The next time I get an idea, I hope they put me back in the crypt before I can try it…"

oo 0 oo

The radio was blasting out a steady torrent of Morse code when Kinch, LeBeau, and Carter returned to the tunnel. That was never a good sign. Garlotti was doing his best to get it all down, but Kinch was the expert, and Garlotti was only too glad to hand the headset and pencil over to the sergeant.

"How'd it go?" Garlotti looked almost afraid to ask. Well, why not… he knew how things had been going so far.

" _Parfait,_ " LeBeau assured him without missing a beat.

"For Pete's sake, we got _shot_ at!" Carter turned a wide-eyed look of disbelief on the French corporal. "That's not _par-fay_ where _I_ come from!"

"It's close enough. We didn't lose anybody else, the film is on its way to London, and we can all go to bed."

"Wrong on all counts." Kinch slipped off his headset and tossed the pencil aside in frustration.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we _did_ lose someone… that pilot had to hit the silk when the Hammelburg battery knocked out his engine. And the film is _not_ on its way to London."

"Why can't we go to bed?" Carter asked.

"Because we need to go out and grab that pilot before the patrols do. One more little thing for our to-do list… start him on the escape route to England." He managed to curb the urge to lose any more of what remained of his composure… Kinch was hardly a volatile guy, but everyone had limits, and he had never felt so much like he was on an endless down escalator to the bargain basement while all the while trying desperately to go up to the mezzanine. How was it even possible for so _much_ to go wrong on one lousy little assignment? Get _one_ lousy roll of film to London. It had been done dozens of times. They knew what they were doing. They were _experts._ It was absolutely inconceivable to fail this many times on one perfectly simple thing that had been done so many times before without a hitch. And none of what was going wrong was actually their fault; it was just a seemingly endless run of bad luck.

Carter and LeBeau looked at each other, then at the ladder leading to the tree stump. Kinch knew they were beat - so was he. But without a word, they went - Carter first, then LeBeau right behind, just as another stream of Morse code started spurting out of the radio. Well, that settled that… and maybe they'd have better luck without him. Kinch slipped the headset back on. If Carter and LeBeau had anything to say, there was a good chance he didn't want to hear it anyway. Nobody had to tell him what a tin-plated fiasco this was turning into. Nobody knew that better than the guy in charge.

oo 0 oo

Hogan laid on his bunk and watched the lighthouse wink its endless series of Morse code D's, actually glad of the safety of his cell after his earlier foray across the roof. Now that he'd seen the lighthouse up close, he felt that he understood it better. It was on the side of Schreiner and the rest of the goons at the moment, but he was pretty sure he could convince it to come over to the side of the Allies and start working _for_ them rather than _against_ them. He'd stashed the canvas over there and returned without it. That was Step One.

 _Daring. Defiant. Determined._

A couple more days and he'd know for sure.

The encounter with the bats aside, the rest of his venture out onto the high peaked roof of the castel had gone off without a hitch. He'd succeeded in proving that it was possible to make it from the barracks over to the lighthouse dome and back. There would be another trip out the window tomorrow night to transport more supplies, but now at least they knew for sure that it could be done. He also had a new idea for how to mount the mirrored panel on overhang above the barracks window so it wouldn't be seen from the ground until the plan actually went into action, and more importantly, could also be concealed after the fact so it wouldn't lead the Krauts back to them.

It was a whole different perspective from out there. His creative juices hadn't flowed this freely in quite a while; he was grateful they hadn't actually dried up from lack of use. It was still a new and not particularly appealing concept to be required to have his ideas vetted by Robinson before anything could be put into action, but his fourth-grade teacher had checked the box on his report card that said 'works and plays well with others', so he figured it wouldn't hurt him any to let someone else lead once in a while.

Soon… _very_ soon… they'd be finding out if his Operation Wrong Turn would play out the way he envisioned it. It was complicated, dangerous, and not a little screwy. Like many of his plans, it had never been tested before. But that didn't mean it wouldn't work. And unless they all decided to build themselves a hang-glider like Crittendon's and fly out of here _en masse_ like a flock of cormorants, it was the only plan on the table.

Hogan fervently hoped it would never come down to having Robinson choose Crittendon's plan over his own - he might be a bit daring in his planning now and then, but at least a Hogan plan obeyed the basic laws of gravity. Well, most of the time. Crittendon didn't seem to think those laws applied to him at all. He was going to be in for a rude awakening if he ever actually tried to fly with that flimsy "wing" of his - and he'd be lucky if a rude awakening was _all_ he got.

 _Dimwit. Dunce. Definitely_.


	23. Chapter 23

It was a rather indignant young pilot who returned with Carter and LeBeau a bit later that night, his flight jacket singed and his face smudged with oil and smoke. "Lieutenant Gordon, this is Sergeant Kinchloe," LeBeau said by way of introduction.

Well, _something_ had gone right. At least this guy was still breathing. "Glad to see you're in one piece," Kinch replied.

"I might not have been if I'd been a little unluckier. But say, I've still got your freight." He reached into the pocket of his flight jacket and pulled out the packet containing the roll of film. "Must be pretty important, huh? What are the pictures of?"

"The guns that shot you down, believe it or not."

"You've gotta be kidding."

"But don't worry, we'll get you out of here all right," Carter was quick to reassure him. "We'll have you off to London in no time. Right, Kinch?"

Well, that was the general idea. And who knows; their luck might change any minute now. Carter certainly seemed optimistic… but then, he'd never been the brightest candle on the birthday cake. "Already on it. You're out of here tomorrow night to the first stop on the escape route. London wants you to take the film along… it's risky, but they really need to get their hands on it as soon as possible."

"After what happened to me tonight, I'm not surprised. Sure, I'll do whatever I can to rub the Krauts' noses in it. Lead on."

"We'll get you outfitted in something that'll make you blend in. It's an established route; you shouldn't have any problems. Just don't take any unnecessary chances."

"You mean like getting up this morning? I'm already starting to regret that."

"You can grab a bunk upstairs for a couple hours of sack time. Just make sure to get back down here before roll call… the goons got all upset about the count being one short the other day; I don't think one over would make them any happier. Carter will show you."

Carter and Gordon were up the ladder to the barracks without having to be asked twice, and Kinch started to shut down the radio while LeBeau looked on. "Any _good_ news from that thing?" the Frenchman asked without sounding convinced of a decent answer.

"I got a relay bulletin from the coast of Italy not far from where Colonel Hogan is. There's a huge supply of munitions coming in by sea tomorrow night. I just wish we had some way of letting him know about it; maybe there's something he could do."

LeBeau shook his head regretfully. "Without a tunnel, or a radio, or any weapons? What could he possibly do about a ship full of munitions?"

"Just wishful thinking, I guess. We've got enough to worry about right here, with the film and now Gordon… and we also gotta find a way to get Newkirk back here before his three days in the cooler run out. We lucked out that the Krauts are short-handed with Schultz away and they didn't give you any backtalk about bringing him his 'meals'."

" _Oui_ … I'm even actually starting to miss him a little bit. And if you ever tell him I said that, I'll break your arm." He smiled when the quip got the hoped-for grin from Kinch. "Come on. We've done enough for one night. Let's split the hay."

"That's _hit_ the hay, Louis."

"That makes no sense either; what does it matter?"

oo 0 oo

Tonight was the night. No guts, no glory. Well begun is half-done. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Now that the time had finally come, Hogan had a few doubts. That wasn't so unusual. Since he wasn't willing to express them in so many words, he had decided to try and crowd them out of his mind by cramming it so full of platitudes that there wouldn't be room for anything else.

"Everything's in place," he relayed to Robinson. "When I get the signal out at the end of the roof line, it's a slow count of fifteen, and then I'll pull the rope and raise the canvas to block the light from shining towards the bay. Then O'Brien here in the barracks will pull _this_ line which is attached to the panel of mirrors hidden under the eaves right above us, here. If this works like it should, the only light that will get out of the lighthouse dome will hit those mirrors and reflect out into the bay, where the ship will pick it up and think it's in the right position to approach the coast, when it's really too far to the west. There's no moon and it's overcast, so they won't be able to double-check their position by the stars; they'll have to go by what they see from the lighthouse. That _should_ put them on the rocks instead of in the channel. If we're lucky, the whole cargo goes into the sea… and wet gunpowder doesn't work too well." He decided to stick his neck out a bit further. "What do you think?"

Robinson hardly knew _what_ to think. Now that it was nearly time to drop the flag on Hogan's annoyingly fiddly and unlikely plot, which he full well knew he had already green-lighted, it sounded even more impossible now than it had when Hogan had first started working on it. If this resulted in anything other than loss of rations to every man jack involved with it, he'd be very surprised.

But yet… there was nothing so compellingly _wrong_ with it that he could put his finger on. None of the men would be in any extreme physical danger, no more than they would be on an ordinary day of trying Schreiner's patience. It wasn't like Hogan was proposing a full frontal assault on the guards with nothing but a few mixing spoons for self-defense. He _was_ , after all, Colonel Hogan of Stalag 13. His younger brother hadn't told him too much detail about the goings-on at 13 after Hogan's men had helped him escape the previous year, but it was clear that it was a unique and amazing facility. Not the type of operation one runs by being anything less than relentlessly bold and open to almost any creative opportunity that might present itself. Hogan was the expert here. The only one they had.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that rot.

"All right, Hogan," Robinson nodded. "We go tonight."

 _And heaven help us._

oo 0 oo

Well, there was one good thing. The pools of oily slop from Carter's little overestimation had nearly been cleared.

Unfortunately, that was also the _bad_ thing.

Schultz was in the midst of his usual perfunctory job of shoveling, and Newkirk was not so far behind him in the productivity department - in fact, he was just about managing to match him, scoop for scoop - when from behind there came a voice that was unaccustomed to being ignored. "Sergeant Schultz!"

Schultz responded first by starting to shovel about three times as fast as he had since being assigned to the job in the first place, and then by spinning around as quickly as he could manage in response to his name. In fact, it was so quickly that he overcompensated, and Newkirk had to step in to stop the about-face from becoming a full-blown pirouette. "Y...y… yes, sir!" By then it was too late for him to correct the fact that in his alarm he had just addressed another sergeant as 'sir'.

"Report to the duty officer!"

Schultz's face fell. One could almost hear it hit the ground. "M...m… me?"

" _Schnell_!"

 _Uh oh…_ Newkirk mused… this didn't bode well. It couldn't be just on account of Schultz's lack of enthusiasm for the task; by this time _none_ of the men had any heart left for it, and goldbricking was commonplace. There were several others who were goofing off worse than Schultz, in fact. Schultz gave Newkirk a mute look begging for some sort of help, but the guard hadn't moved on and Newkirk had no ideas to offer anyway. All he could do was reach out to take Schultz's shovel.

"I'll hold your spot," he offered lamely.

Left with no other option, Schultz trailed after the guard, barely lifting his feet from the ground. He had been in trouble often enough in his military career to know what it looked like, but usually he at least had _some_ idea what he was being taken to task _for._ In this case he was pretty sure he had been doing the job no worse than most of the men, and maybe even better than one or two, like the young private who had been caught sleeping in the utility shed the day before. Maybe he was just the biggest and most appealing target.

Maybe it was finally time to think about dropping a few pounds.

oo 0 oo

The duty officer looked about as Schultz had imagined he would: sick and tired of the whole thing and completely out of any amount of patience he'd originally been equipped with. "Sergeant Schultz reporting as ordered," he said with a confidence he wished he really felt, even just in stating his own name.

"I have had a request from your commanding officer… a Colonel Slink."

Schultz chuckled under his breath. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. "Slink… that's a good one…"

"He requests your presence back at the Luft Stalag urgently. I have decided that I am able to spare you, so you may return at once. You may requisition the vehicle you arrived in from the motor pool and depart immediately."

Schultz snapped a salute. " _Jawohl_ , Herr Major!" After the nonstop menial labor he'd been working as hard as possible to avoid over the past few days, going back to the security of Stalag 13 didn't sound half bad, honestly.

Until… he remembered about Newkirk. "Maybe I… stay a little longer?"

"That is an _order,_ Sergeant!"

Oh _boy,_ was that an order. It sounded just like those orders that were given just before a reminder that the Russian Front could always use more enlisted men, those reminders that Klink was so fond of giving. " _Jawohl_ , Herr Major…"

"That will be all, Sergeant!"

 _Ja_... that would be all… until the Kommandant found out that the Englander had gotten out of camp. Then there would be more.

 _Lots_ more.

oo 0 oo

As peaceful as it had been for the past quarter-hour with no Schultz around to make things any more tedious than they needed to be, Newkirk's internal timer was starting to buzz. Schultz had been gone a while. Longer than it might be expected to take to get a quick lecture on goldbricking and then sent back to his job with a strongly-worded warning about not being such a layabout.

After a certain amount of time had elapsed he decided he needed to look into the matter, and he began to work his way around the compound, doing his best to keep his head down as he glanced about. No Schultz anywhere… and he would be bloody hard to miss.

Finally, as Newkirk rounded the corner of the main administration building – or, more accurately, what was left of it – success. There was Schultz. Newkirk's sense of relief was short-lived, however, when he realized that Schultz was hoisting himself onto the motorcycle he'd arrived here on. Then it all became abundantly clear: he was on his way back to Stalag 13. That was _not_ the plan… but, since he himself had tried to get out that hole in the wire a few nights back, had _anything_ gone according to plan?

Their eyes met for just a couple of seconds as Schultz applied his considerable bulk to kickstarting the rickety motorbike. One of them didn't look happy to go; the other didn't look happy to stay. But there didn't seem to be much either of them could do about it. Regretfully, Newkirk watched his 'ride home' vanish through the front gate and around the bend.

"Well, that's that, then… I gotta get me own self outta here."


	24. Chapter 24

Hogan's standing-by position straddling the peaked roof just underneath the dome of the lighthouse had been reached the same way he'd reached it three times before when he'd been shuttling the remaining gear for the job: sliding across bit by bit in the middle of the night. At least the bats had taken tonight off; he'd run into them more than once on his late-night forays.

Tonight would be his last trip across the roof. Either this would work, or it wouldn't. They would all know soon: the Allied prisoners, the guards, _and_ the crew of that munitions ship. It would be bad news for someone, whatever ended up happening.

Back in the barracks wing, at the open window, Hogan saw a small light. That was the 'go' signal from Wood; they'd sighted the ship with their home-made telescope and they'd calculated that it was close enough start maneuvering toward shore via the channel. If they waited any longer, it would be too late; it would be too obvious when the light "moved" all of a sudden.

In response to that signal, he pulled a cigarette lighter out of his jacket pocket and flicked it twice: _received, proceed_.

The next part of the operation had two potential sticking points: two things needed to happen at almost the exact same moment, but without radios there was no good way to coordinate or synchronize them, and both those operations had the potential to be noisy. Any attention from the ground was going to be unwelcome, to put it mildly, as exposed as they were up there. They had settled for counting down from fifteen from Hogan's lighter signal, and they had rehearsed and re-rehearsed to ensure that they would count off at the same speed. _Eight… seven…_ he tightened his grip on the makeshift rope clutched in his hands. _Five… four…_

"Hogan, old boy! What the deuce are _you_ doing up here?"

 _...oh, no_...

The voice that had sunk a thousand plans was coming from right above him, up on top of the lighthouse dome. They were finished. Hogan might have known that tonight of all nights would be the one Crittendon would pick for his "escape", and from the very position he himself needed to be in at this critical moment.

But he only allowed himself to be distracted for a heartbeat: after the initial shock had passed, he shut Crittendon completely out of his mind, hit _zero_ in the countdown in his head, and pulled for all he was worth on the rope looped into the heavy canvas sheeting that had been blackened with volcanic sand to increase its light-absorbing capabilities. The crude pulleys supporting it creaked and groaned much more loudly than he'd hoped, but it was do or die… maybe both. When the rope wouldn't play out any further, he fashioned a quick knot to hold it in place before he finally dared look up.

The canvas had, almost incredibly, indeed covered up exactly what it had been intended to cover. The only side of the dome that remained uncovered, the side facing the barracks wing, was sending out a bright beam of light, still flashing its distinctive Morse code "D" - and, thanks to the fact that O'Brien's part of the plan had also worked like a charm, the plywood panel covered with all those bits of broken mirrors they'd collected had unfolded on its canvas hinges exactly as designed, and was reflecting all that light out over the bay… and incidentally, also over Crittendon.

There he stood, lit up like the angel on top of a hometown Christmas tree, and he even had the wings: his 'hang glider' perched precariously on his shoulders, nearly engulfing him with its bulk. He expected that thing to _fly_? It was a miracle he'd been able to drag it up there in the first place; it had to weigh a ton. "Get _down_!" Hogan snapped as loudly as he dared.

"Sorry, old boy, can't oblige. There's an excellent tailwind coming in from the open sea this evening; must be off."

 _Yeah, you_ _must_ _be…_ "You'll break your fool neck and you know it!"

Crittendon chuckled; that overconfident, annoying cackle that had preceded so many of his previous classic foul-ups. "Not at all… I'll be on dry land before you can say 'Kitty Hawk'."

"Oh, I don't doubt _that_ for a minute! But it'll be the dry land straight down from where you are right now, and I'm _sure_ it won't take you long to get there!"

There was another sound just then; the sound of a ship's horn. It sounded louder and closer than Hogan had expected it to be. The unfolded panel of mirrors hanging from the barracks roof caught the eerie, lopsided light signal again and again… _D… D… D_ …

The ship's horn sounded once again. How did all this _really_ look from out there? Did it look like a real lighthouse, or just like some bunch of desperate lunatics _reflecting_ a lighthouse? It was dark, it was overcast, but had anyone on board that ship seen the light change position during that split second? "Crittendon, get back in the barracks while there's still time!"

In the next moment, the searchlight from the ground swung upwards toward their position on the roof. Hogan ducked instinctively when he saw it coming, but Crittendon in his supreme self-confidence seemed to accept it as his own personal spotlight and didn't flinch, not one tiny bit. "God save the King!" he shouted, took four running steps toward the edge of the lighthouse dome…

… and then dropped from sight.

As certain as he was that that would be exactly what was going to happen, that there could be no other possible outcome to Crittendon's harebrained plan from the very outset, Hogan experienced a moment of abject shock. Not even Crittendon deserved that kind of an end. He forced himself to look towards the empty edge of the roof, then downward. Someone would have to bear witness. Someone would have to write to his family. After all, he was an Allied officer. He was on the same side. He was…

… _flying…?_

The guards' searchlight, having captured him, had stayed on him as he'd leapt off the roof, and Hogan was grateful because it was truly an amazing thing to see. To his complete and utter disbelief, the air-headed Brit was actually _still in the air!_ It wasn't a confident or a stable glide, but it wasn't the full-tilt direct plummet to the rocks below that Hogan had anticipated either. The makeshift glider nosed up a bit, then down, and the searchlight obligingly followed. Crittendon's legs kicked madly, as if fighting to propel himself towards the coast, and he was letting out a long, high-pitched screech of what was probably fifty percent elation and fifty percent abject terror. He wasn't actually _flying,_ but he wasn't _falling_ either _…_ it was something in between, and Hogan watched astonished as the flailing would-be escapee actually managed to gain a few feet of altitude before he banked out of sight behind the lighthouse.

Then yet another sound: the castel's emergency siren, the alert of an attempted escape, closely followed by another blast from the ship's horn. It had to be too near to have any time to react and be warned off by the alert, or at least Hogan hoped so. It was time for him to get back to cover and wait for the finale. With the searchlight still trailing Crittendon on his awkward, wounded-albatross journey to wherever it was he was eventually going to end up, Hogan began to make his way to the barracks window.

 _What a night_. And it wasn't over yet.

Robinson, Wood, and O'Brien were all there to help pull him in to safety as soon as he reached the sill. If he'd had his heart set on warm congratulations for a plan well-executed he might have been disappointed, but he really couldn't blame Robinson when the first thing out of his mouth was instead, "By Jove, did you _see_ that? Rodney and that… that… _thing_ he cobbled together… you don't mean to tell me it _worked_?"

"It sure worked better than I thought it would," Hogan admitted. "He was still alive more than five seconds after his feet left solid ground."

"Where is he now? He drifted 'round the side of the lighthouse and we lost track of him from the window."

"He was still aloft when I got my last look."

"Good heavens… might he actually _make it_ to the coast?"

Hogan couldn't help himself: he laughed. "I dunno… maybe." In a way he actually had to admire the guy… well, for a second or two anyway... every couple of years. "What about the ship? Is it still heading for the inlet, or has it veered away in all the commotion?"

O'Brien trained the crude telescope that Wood had fashioned from Schreiner's lenses toward the open sea. "I can see her navigation lights very clearly, sir. Still heading toward the shore."

"How's her heading?"

"Difficult to say for sure. I think she might be on the course we set for her, but I can't be certain yet."

"We'll know soon." Robinson looked every bit as tense as Hogan felt.

"Do you think the siren will warn them off?"

"I doubt it. They're not coming ashore here; they're heading for the mainland. And even if there were a prisoner in the water, his safety wouldn't matter to them in the slightest."

"Any sign of Crittendon?" Wood asked.

O'Brien slowly panned the telescope, then shook his head. "No, sir."

That would make for a nasty end: if he hit the water and somehow survived both the plunge and the currents, he still stood a good chance of being mowed down by the munitions ship in that narrow channel. That is, assuming he managed to miss the rocks on either side. Well, he'd made his choice, and now whatever happened to him was his own doing… or _un_ doing.

The ship's horn sounded again. It was drawing closer every second. The moonless night was good for a lot of things, but it wasn't helping their ability to monitor its exact position. Above their heads, the panel of glass continued to reflect the light from the dome out over the harbor, hundreds of feet away from where the ship's navigator expected it to be. _Come on… come on…_ Hogan urged silently. _Right over here…_

The searchlights from down below skimmed across the shrouded lighthouse dome. What did _that_ look like from the water? They could only hope that it was confusing, at the very least, and that it wouldn't display their rather crude handiwork to the ship's crew in time for them to adjust their course. In a way, Crittendon's escapade had helped them out; if the searchlights had reached it any earlier there would have been more time for the guards to react if they'd recognized that something was up, maybe even enough to disable their trap. The time the guards had wasted trying to track Crittendon's 'flight' had been to the prisoners' advantage, no doubt about it.

Then they heard it: the crushing, tearing sound of metal on rock. They exchanged glances. What else could it be but the ship running aground? Not wanting to get their hopes up, but hardly able to believe that noise could have been anything other than the hoped-for shipwreck, O'Brien raised the makeshift telescope again and trained it on the dark harbor.

Moments later, the harbor wasn't completely dark anymore. A flame, very small at first but growing larger almost at once, appeared. "She's on the rocks," O'Brien confirmed. "And she's on fire!" He passed the glass to Robinson. "Look, sir!"

Robinson could count on one hand the number of times he'd genuinely smiled since he'd arrived at the castel, but it happened just then as he inspected the damage. "I believe we've found the fuel tank, gentlemen." He passed the telescope to Hogan. "That's a beautiful sight, I must say."

Hogan couldn't have agreed more. He'd seen a lot of burning trucks, burning trains, burning fuel depots, but here was his very first burning munitions ship, and he couldn't deny a strong sense of pride. The pool of flaming fuel and oil was spreading out from the fractured hull over the water very rapidly; the impact had to have torn an enormous hole in the hull. He was about to say something to Robinson when the entire night sky lit up, followed by a terrific explosion, and the four of them reflexively dropped down below the level of the windowsill for protection. After a few seconds they risked another glance out the window.

The entire ship had erupted in flames. No more problems seeing exactly what was going on; in that intense light it would have been visible for miles. "And we also found the cargo hold," Hogan added. "That, gentlemen, is why you should never put all your explosive eggs in one basket."

"Every last one of _those_ eggs is hard-boiled," Robinson confirmed with infinite satisfaction. "The loss of all that ordnance will set the action on the front behind schedule for weeks." He nodded to Wood. "You can pull it back up now, Charlie, and we'll secure it as before. If Hogan's design pans out as well as everything else has, the Gerries will never know it's there."

"I'll wager that wreck will shut the harbor down for a while," O'Brien added.

Wood began hauling on the rope attached to the mirror panel, and they all heard the slap of the plywood sections folding back onto themselves, accordion-style, as they resumed their original position concealed under the eaves. All that remained would be to cut and dispose of the rope, and put a quick bolt on the contraption so it would stay in place, well out of sight and mind until the end of the war. "That won't go well for Schreiner; the entire harbor is his personal bailiwick. He can hardly miss being the donkey they pin the tail on."

"All said and done, an excellent night's work."

True. But what about Crittendon? That thought kept intruding on Hogan's self-satisfaction at a job well done. He wanted to resist it, but it just wasn't possible. They were on the same side… more or less… and no ally, no matter how annoying, deserved the terrible fate of plunging into the middle of that explosion and fire. Crittendon's dumb luck had served him well up to this point… had it held out just the little bit longer he would have needed to avoid the full-scale disaster down below?

How many men _had_ they lost from their original roll at the castel? Two? Or was it now three?


	25. Chapter 25

It might have been possible to get another plane to come pick up the downed pilot and the film. But if something already hadn't worked twice, maybe it was time to try something different.

In Newkirk's absence, LeBeau had been tasked to whip up a disguise for their temporary guest in the tunnel, as well as to sew the film securely into the lining of the coat he would be wearing. Gordon would be leaving the camp in the back of the dog truck dressed as a not-too-well-heeled local, with LeBeau's tailoring mimicking the usual ill-fitting clothes the typical working-class folk in the Hammelburg area were able to scrounge up in wartime. Gordon wasn't going to win any prizes for fashion on his way out of Germany, but he had a pretty good chance of getting out alive. Their luck _had_ to turn soon. Nobody could roll snake-eyes _every_ time.

"The bad news is that you're traveling by dog truck," Kinch began the usual pre-escape briefing, to ensure that all the details were covered and well understood.

Gordon chuckled. "I just got shot outta the sky, don't forget. A dog truck sounds pretty good to me right now. Actually, even a dog _sled_ would be okay."

"The bartender at the Hausnerhof is our contact. His name is Georg. The recognition code is 'Do you have a light?', and he'll reply 'Sorry, I quit smoking last month'. He'll give you directions to the next stop on the escape route. If all goes well you should be back in London in a couple days, and you'll have a great story to tell your girl after the war."

"I could use one where I end up looking good. She sure didn't like the one I told her about the Hollywood Canteen."

" _I_ might," LeBeau put in as he put the final touches on the side seam of the coat. "Try me."

"You got a girl at home?"

"Several," the Frenchman smiled with self-confidence.

"Then trust me… if you're ever at the Hollywood Canteen and you've got a choice between having your picture taken with your arm around Betty Grable or Eddie Cantor, pick Cantor. I sent my girl a copy of the photo of me and Betty, and she didn't write to me for a month."

Carter joined them just then in the standard after-dark outfit of head-to-toe black. "The guards are getting ready for the shift change."

"That's the best time to sneak you out," LeBeau told Gordon. "While the guards are changing over, we'll bring you up through the kennel and right into the back of Schnitzer's truck. Don't worry about the dogs; they're tame."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Go up with Carter," Kinch directed. "He'll tell you when to move. Hey, Andrew, Gordon here was just telling us he once met Betty Grable."

Carter's eyes just about fell out of his head. "No kiddin'? Honest?"

Gordon grinned. "I sure like your reaction better than my girl's. Yeah, I even put my arm around her." He held up his right hand.

" _That_ one?" To Gordon's nod, Carter grasped his hand and shook it almost reverently. "This is a real honor…" His voice broke. "You have no idea…"

"Can we finish the war now, Andrew?" Kinch asked. "You'll be fine, Gordon. Carter won't let _anything_ happen to you."

"Not to _that_ hand, at least," LeBeau added.

Schnitzer's truck had parked in the usual spot, right in front of the kennel gate, and he was already in the process of changing out the dogs. It took only a few seconds - the _right_ few seconds; the ones where there was no searchlight or nearby guard monitoring the goings-on - for Gordon to climb up out from underneath the hinged doghouse and into the back of the van. He waved back to Carter - using _that_ hand - then Schnitzer secured the door on the back of the truck, and climbed into the driver's seat.

A couple of minutes later, the truck approached the front gate, and LeBeau and Kinch watched through the rain-barrel periscope. More accurately, Kinch watched: LeBeau paced and waited for a blow-by-blow description. 'He's in the truck' was followed by 'The truck's at the gate', but then there was too long a silence for the Frenchman's liking.

" _Well?_ " he finally demanded.

"So far so good. They're past the front gate. No alarm, no nothing."

"You don't mean to tell me it _worked_?"

"Looks that way. I wish you didn't sound so surprised."

" _Moi aussi_."

Carter emerged from the tunnel to join them. "Gordon's out, and the truck's away."

"They say the third time's the charm."

"Is this only the _third_ time? It feels like we've been working on just this one thing for six months." But hard as he tried to find something wrong, even Kinch finally had to admit that it looked like the coast was clear. He lowered the faucets back down into their normal position above the sink. "Okay… so maybe we _can_ finally close the book on Gordon and that film. But I'll only _really_ believe it when he sends us a postcard from London."

"You should think more positively." But then LeBeau went clear around his own advice and went to take a look through the periscope himself. "Just to make sure." Kinch had very nearly made the decision to move on to the next item on the agenda when LeBeau's voice stopped him cold. "Uh oh…"

"What, 'uh oh'?"

"It's not Gordon. It's Schultz. He's back. Just came through the gate. He looks upset."

"How upset?"

The faint sound of a motorcycle outside became increasingly louder. "Upset enough to come straight here instead of stopping at the motor pool."

"Guess we'd better let him in, then."

Schultz hadn't been expecting that; after getting off the bike and running to the barracks door he ended up barreling through the suddenly and unexpectedly open doorway like a small truck with no brakes, and he nearly bounced off the stove. "To what do we owe this pleasure?" Kinch asked casually, as if all of what had just happened was perfectly normal.

" _Newkirk…!"_ was the only word Schultz could manage to force out of his mouth.

"Great guy."

"He is _not here…_!"

"By golly, you're right. I thought it seemed pretty quiet around the barracks for some reason. That must be it."

Schultz took a deep breath and tried yet again. "He is _working_ at the _artillery installation_! In a…" Here he paused for the strength to articulate the terrible truth. "In a _German uniform_!"

LeBeau shook his head. " _Pas possible._ It can't be Newkirk if he's working."

"Look, Schultz, I don't know what you think you saw over there, but Newkirk is right here, in the cooler," Kinch assured him. "Klink gave him three days. There's nothing to worry about."

"But… but I _saw him…_!"

"Have you been hitting the beer garden before going on duty, big fella?" Carter made a 'for shame' motion with his two index fingers. "Schultz… I'm surprised at you."

"You've been working too hard, Schultz", Kinch assured him. "What would Newkirk be doing at the artillery installation? Look… why don't you bring the motorcycle back to the motor pool where it belongs, then go on over to the cooler and see for yourself."

They could almost hear the gears turning in Schultz's head. He wanted so much to believe them that he was almost immediately ready to _disbelieve_ what he'd already seen with his own eyes and take their words for established fact. "You… you think so?"

"We _know_ so. You know Klink. Newkirk'll get the whole three days, but after that he'll be right back in the barracks where he belongs. Go take a look if you don't believe us."

" _Ja…_ I go take a look…"

"Motor pool first," LeBeau added.

" _Ja…"_ He backed out of the barracks door, walking very gingerly, seemingly afraid that if he caused any further disruption it might be enough to upset the newly-established balance, to foul up a case of events that was _so_ much better than it had looked when he'd first come in.

As soon as the door was closed, LeBeau turned to Kinch. "You think he'll really check?"

"Maybe not. He might be too scared that it's _not_ true and doesn't really want to find out for sure. But just in case, tell Garlotti to put on Newkirk's uniform and access solitary confinement from the tunnel; cover up on the cot with a couple of blankets, stick one arm out, and make it look good. Schultz won't try and wake him up; if he does dare go check, he'll be too relieved to see what he thinks is Newkirk in there in the first place... he won't press his luck."

"How _are_ we going to get Newkirk back?" Carter asked. "I mean, for real."

"I'm entertaining any and all suggestions. They must be watching him pretty closely or he would have managed to get away on his own by now. Now that Gordon's safely on his way to London, we can put Newkirk back on the front burner."


	26. Chapter 26

The day was already warm and humid, giving a strong hint as to what the weather for the rest of the morning was likely to be. The sun was barely above the horizon. The remaining prisoners at Castel Fiocco all had an excellent view of that sunrise. They had been standing outside in the ranks for hours, ever since being driven from the barracks wing of the castel and out into the exercise yard in the middle of the night by a whole lot of very angry guards. The men who had been an active part of the operation the night before hadn't slept in over 24 hours, and none of them had had anything to eat or drink since the evening meal. But the mood in the ranks was nevertheless one of elation. The bright orange sunrise was smudged with black smoke from the still-burning wreck smashed against the rocks. The heavy stench of burning oil and gunpowder still hung in the air.

All of that served as a cheerful reminder of why they were all standing out here, and not still dreaming in their bunks. They all knew things were likely to get worse for them before they got any better, but the current score was Allies 1, Axis 0, and not one of those tired and hungry men would have changed it for the world. Most of them had never seen anything like it, had never even dreamed that anything like it would be possible, and being a part of it was an honor they would never forget.

There had been no mention among the guards of Crittendon. Hogan was pretty sure that if they'd found him, either dead or alive, someone would have gloated about it by now. Personally, he was hopeful that part of the guards' foul mood this morning had just as much to do with the first successful escape from Castel Fiocco than it did with the burning munitions ship. But it would be nice to know for sure.

There was a sudden flurry of activity in Hogan's peripheral vision on the right. He moved only his eyes to check it out… their captors were particularly touchy this morning, and it was rather surprising that they hadn't already gone trigger-happy and started throwing their weight and their frustration around. He had no particular desire to provoke them: he liked being ahead, and he liked staying there. It hadn't been so long that he'd forgotten about the crypt.

The disruption proved to be Schreiner, looking at least twice as ornery as Hogan had yet seen him. Unlike the easily-flustered Klink whenever he was behind the eight-ball, Schreiner moved with a confident, determined economy of motion that put him somewhere between 'rattlesnake' and 'panther'. The mere fact that he hadn't appeared before now was pretty telling; in his own brand of psychological warfare, he had doubtless preferred to keep the prisoners off-balance and in suspense for a while rather than addressing them immediately. Now he emerged from the doorway, declined to acknowledge the salutes his own men snapped in his direction, and proceeded to the front of the assembly of prisoners. The eyes of all of the Allied officers followed him as he took his position.

"Last night…" he began, in his normal tone of address, "an incident occurred for which you will all be held responsible and for which all of you will pay. I have no need to know exactly how you accomplished this insult to the Third Reich. I have no need to know who among you participated and who did not. You are all guilty and you will all suffer the consequences. I warn you that these will be severe."

He had no evidence that the prisoners had had anything at all to do with what had happened last night, or he would have told them so. Still, Hogan's thoughts went once more to the crypt… he might well be back in there before too much longer. But it was pretty certain that Schreiner's military career was going to be buried even deeper before everything was said and done. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

His adjutant Gruber appeared in the doorway of the castel just then, paused for only the briefest of moments, then double-timed over to join him. "Herr Kommandant… a telephone call for you… it is urgent."

So much for forced calm; the next words out of Schreiner's mouth came out in a scream. " _Trottel!_ _Ich bin hier sehr beschäftig!"_

Gruber seemed to think for a moment about what his best course of action might be… best for _him_ , at least… then chose to continue, with obvious reluctance. "Begging the Kommandant's pardon… a personal aide calling from the office of Reichsmarshal Göring in Berlin requests to speak with you immediately. It is of the utmost importance."

"Better take it…" Hogan risked, barely audibly out of the corner of his mouth, towards Robinson who stood next to him.

"Hates to be kept waiting, I hear…" Robinson murmured back.

"Tell the Reichsmarshal I will return his call at my earliest opportunity!" Schreiner barked. He had moderated his tone somewhat, but not all the way.

"Bad career move…" Hogan asided to Robinson.

He thought for a moment that he'd been overheard when Schreiner's gaze dropped on him as Gruber scuttled away to deliver the message to whatever third-tier minion was on the other end of Schreiner's private line, but realistically he knew there was no way his voice could have carried that far. Mutely, Schreiner stared at him for a full count of half a minute. Neither of them broke the stare. Neither man blinked.

"My office, at once," Schreiner spat. "Robinson _and_ Hogan." Then he turned on his heel and stalked back into the castel.

Two guards stepped forward immediately to take charge of the two men. Robinson managed to stall long enough to catch Wood's eye. "If I don't see you later, Charlie…" he began, almost sounding casual.

"Of course you will, Freddy." Wood didn't sound like he believed that any more than Robinson did. Under the circumstances, this could well be the last time they'd ever lay eyes on one another. A tough moment for both Robinson and Wood… and Hogan knew exactly how they felt, having only been spared his goodbyes to his own men through bad luck and Gestapo efficiency… but they both handled it with dignity and aplomb. A moment later Robinson was being shoved inside the castel by the rifle barrel digging into his ribs, and Hogan followed close behind.

Schreiner had recovered most of his self-control by the time the two prisoners joined him in his office. He still looked taut as a bowstring, and his jaw was clenched tightly enough to crack his molars, but there was no immediate verbal barrage when Hogan and Robinson entered. "Robinson and Hogan reporting as ordered, Kommandant," Robinson said in a nod to formality.

"The two of you are doubtless primarily responsible for the events of last night." Robinson didn't reply, nor did Hogan. No point in denying; he wouldn't believe them anyway… and certainly no wisdom in agreeing. "I do not expect you to confess. Either of you. Not like this." Schreiner paused. "But I believe you will be willing to confess in five minutes from now when I have one of the men in the exercise yard shot. If you do not, I will have another one shot five minutes after that. We will continue until you confess… or until you run out of men."

"Of course that's a violation of the Geneva Convention." Hogan was well aware that he wasn't telling the German anything he didn't already know, but it was one way to try and gauge his state of mind. "Especially since we didn't sink that ship."

"Surely you don't believe that I would be influenced by a trifling document such as the Geneva Convention under the current circumstances. This is _my_ camp, and I will run it in whatever way that I choose. You have forced my hand on that with your activities of last night. However many of your men lose their lives because of it is hardly my affair."

"I respectfully beg your pardon, Kommandant," Robinson began, "but you'll find that all the prisoners are present and accounted for with the exception of Colonel Crittendon. Those fellows could hardly sink a munitions ship under _any_ circumstances, let alone under lock and key and from this distance. And Crittendon is, well… Crittendon."

So that was absolute confirmation that the Krauts hadn't found the folded mirrors. Good. And Hogan had taken care of the canvas at the lighthouse by making one final excursion over the rooftop just before the startled and confused guards had stormed the barracks last night, cutting all the pulley ropes and tossing the whole kit and caboodle off the side of the castel into the churning sea, where it was all by now without a doubt shredded on the rocks and unrecognizable as what it had originally been used for… and, more than likely, half-burned to boot.

In his frustration, however, Schreiner didn't necessarily have to care about any of that… he was solely concerned with saving his own Teutonic backside, and he could go about that any way he pleased. He _was_ still in command of this prison. Their plan was to placate him and try to make him see how groundless his accusations sounded… would he _really_ want to put that flimsy case before the Gestapo? His prisoners, who were all present save one, had sunk a munitions ship from a quarter-mile away? He stood a very good chance of being laughed all the way back to Germany, and all that was required was to convince him of that. Accepting it as a maritime accident in rough seas would make a lot more sense, and there was nobody left alive on that ship to say otherwise. Hogan and Robinson had been over this a half-dozen times in their preparation for last night. It could work.

It _had_ to work.

There was a loud, brisk knock on his office door. "Come!"

Gruber, looking even more unhappy than he had in the courtyard a few minutes earlier, entered quickly. "Herr Kommandant…"

"Gruber, you will go to the courtyard, select the third prisoner from the left in the second row of men, and shoot whoever it is personally. When you have completed your task, bring me his dogtags so that I may give them to Group Captain Robinson and Colonel Hogan. And you will not tidythem in any way before bringing them here."

Robinson and Hogan exchanged a worried glance. Whichever one of them felt best able to placate Schreiner, he had best begin right _now._ Robinson, as senior POW, drew a breath and prepared to speak.

But rather than saluting and exiting, Gruber remained. "Herr Kommandant… I beg to report…"

"You will do this _now_ , Gruber! There is nothing you could possibly report to me that is of any consequence whatsoever!"

"A launch is approaching the dock, Herr Kommandant…"

"I do not care if the _Bismarck_ has raised itself and is by some miracle about to drop anchor in this harbor!"

"It is Reichsmarshal Göring, Herr Kommandant… he is _here…_ "

Hogan had seen two real emotions on Schreiner's face in their brief acquaintance: quiet contempt, and boiling rage. The look on his face at the moment made a total of three: abject terror. If Schreiner were ever likely to remind him of Klink, this was the moment. "The _Reichsmarshal? Here?_ "

" _Jawohl…_ " Gruber didn't look much healthier. "He has been with Mussolini in Naples… the call from Berlin… it was to advise you that the Reichsmarshal was on his way… in response to last night's… " He swallowed hard. "... incident…"

" _Mein Gott…_ " Schreiner breathed.

 _We didn't do a good enough job blocking the harbor if something as big as Fat Hermann can get through_ , was the first thought that passed through Hogan's mind. Was this a blessing in disguise, or was this about to make things exponentially worse for all of them?

At the very least, it was a welcome distraction: whoever the third man from the left in the second row was, he had his lucky stars and Hermann Göring to thank that he might live to see another day. Schreiner and Gruber left the room at once. In fact, they were rattled enough that neither of them seemed to notice or care that Hogan and Robinson were left all alone in the kommandant's office… which Hogan immediately took advantage of by climbing up onto Schreiner's desk in order to be able to see the harbor through the high window. A launch was indeed approaching the island, and standing at the bow was a giant-economy-sized blob of white… the small craft was doing well not to founder under the weight. "Well, will you look at that… somebody here order a Field Marshal? Looks like they're gonna need a forklift to get him ashore."

"I'd best be getting back to the exercise yard to rejoin the men… who knows what's next with all this going on."

Hogan hadn't yet taken his eyes off the incoming launch. "I'll stay here… maybe I can get his autograph for my collection."

"Right-o. I say, do you think you should be standing on the old man's desk like that?"

"You're right." Hogan wiped his feet on the layer of official paperwork under them, tearing a few and leaving streaks of black volcanic ash on every single one. "I should be doing it like _that_."

Robinson laughed, something he realized he hadn't done in quite some time. "I wouldn't trade a single minute of knowing you for all the jewels in the crown, Hogan." He disappeared down the corridor, leaving Hogan alone with his thoughts… and a bird's eye view of one of Hitler's right-hand men.

The mere sight of Göring was quietly fascinating, even from this distance. It was the first time Hogan had actually seen any of the major players of this war in person… before this, the closest he'd come was seeing Schultz dressed up like Göring for one of Marya's half-baked schemes, and that didn't count. Here was an actual key element of this war right in front of his eyes.

Almost close enough to shoot.

Well, there was no point wasting any time thinking about that… he had no gun. Still, not so long ago, Hogan had been lying in the crypt all but certain that his life was over, and that no one he cared about would ever find out what had happened to him… today he was standing on Schreiner's desk watching the one and only Hermann Göring approaching the castel, about to make Schreiner wish he could crawl into his own crypt and quietly expire in there.

You never knew what would happen next in this nutty war.


	27. Chapter 27

" _Chimney Sweep callin' Papa Bear!"_

The walkie-talkie on the table blared the usual not-so-subtle check-in request from Newkirk. "This is Papa Bear; go ahead, Chimney Sweep," Carter replied. He'd lost the earlier coin toss; he was the one who had to answer the call.

" _I suppose you blokes have already twigged that Schulz is back at Stalag 13._ "

"Yeah, he showed up a few hours ago. How come you didn't come with him?"

" _Because anybody who don't have permission to walk out that gate don't_ _get_ _out that gate; that's why! The goons keep an eye peeled day and night, y'know! I ain't here for me health!_ "

"Well, at least he sounds okay," LeBeau nodded. "Like always."

"Your three days in the cooler are just about up," Kinch added. "LeBeau's been bringing meals to an empty cell. We need to get you back pronto before the Krauts figure out you aren't even in there."

" _I couldn't agree more! But I'd say we're short exactly one_ _plan_ _, wouldn't you?_ "

 _Oh_ , that _voice_ … "You better keep it down unless you _want_ to be caught red-handed with that walkie-talkie. That place is crawling with guards, they can hear everything we…" Suddenly Kinch stopped himself short. "Hey, wait a minute..."

" _I ain't got many minutes to spare, mate!_ "

"Yeah… why not… maybe it's been right in front of us the whole time."

"You have an idea, Kinch?" LeBeau asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I think so."

" _I'll take it!_ " Newkirk snapped. " _Don't bother havin' it wrapped; just_ _send_ _it!_ "

"Can you get close enough to one of the gate guards to slip something into his coat pocket?"

" _Well, if you're gonna get insultin', maybe I'll just stay where I am and make some_ _new_ _friends!_ "

Kinch grinned. "Sorry. Listen. See what you think of this…"

oo 0 oo

Newkirk approached the front gate with Kinch's plan in his head, an unlit cigarette in his hand, and the walkie-talkie set to receive in his overcoat pocket. If all went well, those three items were about to converge into a way for him to get out of this dump, and back into the dump he belonged in.

At the sentry box, the two guards on duty were appropriately on task and turned to level their rifles at the approaching Englishman when he was still ten feet away, even though they were absolutely sure he was on the same side they were. " _Halt!_ " the younger one called out.

Newkirk obligingly held his hands in plain sight. Well, that one was his mark, then… younger, and hopefully with less experience in crafty enemy soldiers pulling the rug out from under him. " _Haben Sie eine Licht?_ " He gestured with the cigarette to underscore his inquiry. " _Bitte?_ "

Whether the guard was in a good mood to begin with or he was just glad the request was such a simple one, he lowered his rifle and patted his overcoat pocket in search of a lighter, while the second and definitely less cooperative guard minded his own business. " _Ja… ich glaube schon._ " Locating it, he pulled it out and spun the flintwheel with his thumb, and Newkirk came closer.

" _Danke._ " When he tripped and stumbled a bit, jostling the guard, he was quick to apologize. " _Entschuldigung._ " Touching the end of the cigarette to the small flame and taking a few quick puffs to get it going, he smiled and nodded his thanks again before moving away, back towards the barracks. He still had Kinch's plan and the cigarette … but the guard now had the walkie-talkie, although he didn't know it.

Yet.

oo 0 oo

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau waited the agreed-upon ten minutes, then switched on the corresponding radio back at Stalag 13 and set it to transmit. "This is headquarters calling operative 421! 421, do you read me?" Kinch wasn't bothering to disguise his voice or attempt a German accent; that was the entire point. The more American he sounded, the better. And he could holler almost as loud as Newkirk when he put his mind to it.

The receiving unit did its job and received. And suddenly the young guard at the front gate found he had a lot more than a cigarette lighter in his pocket. The second guard also heard the voice, and immediately moved closer. " _Was ist los?_ " he demanded. " _Eine amerikanishe Stimme_?"

The first guard looked with horror down at the folds of his coat where the voice was coming from. The second guard hoisted his rifle to the ready position and gestured for him to drop his own weapon to the ground, which he did immediately, still with absolutely no idea what was going on.

Newkirk, ever the helpful one, took that opportunity to yell towards the group of soldiers standing nearby, " _Achtung!_ Trouble at the gate! They need help, _schnell!_ " Immediately all four of them drew their own weapons and ran for the front of the compound to see what all the commotion was about, and Newkirk went with them. The difference was that the rest of them stopped inside the gate as soon as they saw the two guards, one with his gun trained on the other one, and heard Kinch's voice still yelling nonsense about "headquarters" and random numbers and anything else that occurred to him, trying to sound as confusing and as suspicious as possible.

Newkirk, though, charged right through the gate and out into the middle of the dirt road that passed beside the installation, skidded to a stop in the loose gravel, and held up both his hands to suspend the nonexistent traffic. " _Halt!_ " he yelled with authority. "Go back! Security alert! No one may pass!" There were enough trees in the area to make it difficult for anyone still on the inside of the fence to be able to determine whether there were any vehicles approaching or not, which was exactly what Newkirk had been counting on.

One of the guards pulled the walkie-talkie out of the pocket of the unsuspecting young soldier and held it aloft for all to see. Outside of the pocket, Kinch's voice became all the easier to hear. " _We are ready to attack the rear of the installation! Remain at your post at the front gate, 421, and send the confirmation signal!_ "

All six guards, including the young dupe, turned automatically to look toward the rear fence. That was Newkirk's cue to drop his traffic-cop stance and sprint for the woods as fast as he could go… which was pretty fast, since he knew exactly what was likely to happen to him if he didn't get out of there before the distraction wore off and his unauthorized departure might be noticed.

Next stop: Stalag 13.


	28. Chapter 28

To Hogan's disappointment he didn't get the chance to meet Göring in person that day, although he was a patient man and he'd been quite willing to wait his turn. Instead, he was ejected from Schreiner's office moments after Robinson left, by two adjutants who were in such a state at the Field Marshal's impending approach that they simply swept the mud-smeared papers on Schreiner's desk into an empty cardboard box, and one fled the office with it while the other gave Hogan the bum's rush back to the exercise yard, never even questioning how the papers had gotten that way or holding Hogan accountable. They had more pressing matters to turn their attention to… like how to stay out of the way of the gigantic white hurricane that had just blown in from Naples.

The prisoners' forced formation in the yard that had continued without respite since late the previous night finally came to an end when the voice of the supreme commander of the Luftwaffe became audible to the men assembled below Schreiner's office window. And the window was closed. Göring was using abusive language on the kommandant that he didn't normally employ for the _gemütlich_ propaganda newsreels, and the prisoners enjoyed the show for a minute or so until the senior guard took it upon himself to cancel Schreiner's standing order not to allow the men to break formation under any circumstances, and ordered them back to the barracks wing.

"Somebody needs his mouth washed out with soap," Hogan commented as he sat down on his bunk… it felt real good to get off his feet; he'd been standing in place since the middle of the previous night. "I don't even _know_ some of those words, and I've spent the last two years in a German prison camp."

"I think he also surpassed the decibel level of the last one of Hitler's speeches I was subjected to," Robinson agreed. "He's quite a charmer."

"What do you suppose will happen now?"

"Hard to say. This castel is one of Big Boy's pet projects. Obviously he's disappointed, to put it mildly, as to how it's been working out over the past several hours… as we just heard. We may well have seen the last of Schreiner."

" _Everybody_ may have seen the last of Schreiner. If I were his mother I wouldn't be blowing any money on a present for his next birthday, because there's a good chance he's not gonna have one."

All bets were off under these unusual circumstances, so it didn't come as that much of a surprise when a guard entered just then and motioned for Robinson to get out and return to his own cell. Normally during the day the prisoners could circulate in the barracks wing and pretty much be where they liked unless assigned to a work detail or an exercise period in the yard… but this was hardly a normal day. Astutely, Robinson chose not to try the man's patience, simply nodded to Hogan, and moved off as directed. The guard followed up by banging Hogan's cell door closed, and he heard the distinct sound of the big key turning in the heavy lock.

Okay. So. Apparently things _were_ going to get worse before they got any better. Well, they'd seen this coming. You couldn't do what they'd spent last night doing and expect no consequences… LeBeau would probably make a "breaking eggs to make an omelet" analogy here. The sound of Robinson's cell door banging shut and that lock slamming into place was no surprise either. There was also Göring's security to be considered… the Krauts weren't going to risk anything happening to their Field Marshal when they already didn't have any idea what had happened to their munitions ship.

 _An omelet_. He wished he hadn't done that. He hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the previous night, and it was now almost noon.

He glanced up at the unoccupied top bunk. Where the hell _was_ Crittendon, anyway? The not knowing was the worst part… if it was bad news, at least he could set himself to dealing with it and move on, but here he sat with no idea what had happened to the bumbling Brit, and nothing to do _but_ wonder.

The sound of yet another nearby cell door slamming and a lock falling into place reached his ears.

So… in this crazy convoluted game of chess they were playing… who would make the next move?

oo 0 oo

"Hey, look who's home!"

Newkirk found himself welcomed by a round of applause and even a few whistles when he climbed the ladder from the tunnel up to the barracks. He'd been in a German uniform for so long that he'd almost forgotten how much better his own light cap felt than that heavy metal helmet that had been weighing him down for days. In fact, there was only one thing in the barracks he could find to object to: the look on LeBeau's face when he turned away with a look of repulsion.

" _Quelle odeur…_ "

"Yeah, well, you can thank Carter for that… I been marinatin' in that slop for days, and I can even _taste_ it. I think they call it _eau de kerosene flambé_ , and I can't see it catchin' on at the men's department of Harrod's as an aftershave lotion".

"Well, don't let Schultz see you," Kinch instructed. "We need you to circle around and get officially sprung from the cooler first."

"And then we can run you through the carwash along with Klink's staff car," LeBeau added. "So don't let Schultzie _smell_ you, either. And _don't_ get too close to the stove."

"Charmin'." He took his customary seat at the table and accepted the cup of coffee LeBeau set in front of him. "So, lads, what've I missed while I been gone?"

"Not much has changed around here," Kinch replied. "But we did finally got that film off to London, and we're just waiting for them to confirm receipt, so that'll be one thing we can finally scratch off our to-do list."

"We need a vacation after that one," Carter put in. "Boy, I thought that was _never_ gonna be over."

Garlotti popped his head out of the tunnel. "Hey, Kinch, that call from London you've been waiting for is coming in… want me to take it?"

Kinch headed straight for the ladder. "Nope… I want to hear it with my own ears that that film made it to London and Gordon is safe. I don't want to miss a single dit."

It appeared that nobody else was willing to take it for granted either; they all followed him down to the radio room to witness the hoped-for good news. Everything seemed to be going fine – Kinch was listening intently and taking down what he heard, just like always, even giving in to a self-satisfied hint of a smile once or twice. "Okay…" he finally confirmed to the rest of the men who stood by with fingers firmly crossed. "It's confirmed. Gordon made it in one piece, the film is in the hands of the Allies, and the secret aiming mechanism won't be a secret for long. Mission _finally_ and _officially_ accomplished."

A round of cheering followed, possibly even slightly more enthusiastic than the round that had hailed Newkirk's return, although it didn't seem like Newkirk minded, since his voice was as loud as anyone else's. In fact, Kinch had to motion to them to pipe down when the incoming message didn't stop there. "Hang on, there's more."

LeBeau boldly took a step forward. "We can do _anything_!"

"Yeah, we're on a roll now, boy!" Carter agreed. "There's nothin' we can't handle!"

"This doesn't sound like it's one for us… the coordinates are…" Kinch stopped talking and devoted himself a hundred percent to getting the details of the incoming message down accurately… then he couldn't help himself and gave a low whistle. "I don't believe it…"

"Try us; maybe _we_ will," LeBeau pressed.

" _Wow_ …"

"Wow, _what_?" Newkirk demanded. "Don't leave us hangin'! You're worse than a Saturday-afternoon serial!"

Carter peered over Kinch's shoulder at the pad he was writing on. "What _is_ it, if it's not an assignment?"

Kinch sent a brief acknowledgement of confirmation before shutting down the set, then picked up his clipboard. "Gentlemen…" he began with a flair he almost never bothered to use when relaying a message. "London would like us to know that they intercepted some official transmissions and got word of a Kraut munitions ship being blown sky-high."

"So?"

"So it happens to have been right where the Castel Fiocco POW camp is located. Ring any bells with you, Andrew?"

"Sure, that's where the colonel is… does London think _Colonel Hogan_ blew up a whole _ship_ by _himself_?"

"Nah..." Newkirk shook his head definitively. "Locked up on an island ain't no one ever escaped from, with no radio, no explosives, no guns, no nothin'? How's he gonna blow up a ship?"

"How many ships do you think ever blew up in that harbor _before_ Colonel Hogan got there?" Kinch grinned. "London thinks it's as good as a signature."

"It just ain't possible."

" _I_ think it is," LeBeau ventured with a broad smile.

"Me too," Carter agreed. "I mean… it _is_ the kind of thing you'd expect to happen when the colonel's around."

"Still gonna buck the trend, Newkirk?" Kinch asked. "My vote makes three."

"Look, I ain't sayin' I wouldn't _like_ to think so, but…" He thought about it for a few more seconds. "Yeah… all right… I ain't never gonna bet against the guv'nor."

"Cheer up. We'll all meet up after the war, buy him a steak dinner, and he can tell us all about it."

"Right," Carter added.

Newkirk nodded rather unenthusiastically. "That's a long bloody time to have to wait, is all."


	29. Chapter 29

An hour after the Stalag 13 prisoners received the word about the explosion in the harbor near Castel Fiocco, Schultz went into the cooler with sweating palms, fearing the worst… that the solitary confinement cell would be empty, he would realize that he'd been hoodwinked, and Newkirk would be nowhere to be found. Or even worse yet, that he _would_ be found, but at the anti-aircraft installation, still wearing a German uniform. Schultz had seen it himself… or at least _thought_ he had… but he had no desire to attempt to explain it to the Kommandant, to Major Hochstetter, or to anyone else.

It was a very relieved Schultz who exited the cooler along with Newkirk a few minutes later, the latter wearing the customary blue uniform and insignia of his own air force. And if there were perhaps a slight odor of kerosene about the Englander… that could be very easily ignored. Schultz was always happy to add to his own list of competencies: he felt perfectly capable of seeing, hearing, knowing _and_ smelling no- _thing_.

Newkirk then did the obligatory job of stretching and squinting against the sunlight before meandering off in the direction of his own barracks and greeting his mates as if they hadn't all just sat down to lunch twenty minutes earlier.

"How was the cooler?" LeBeau asked.

"Just the way I like it… _fast._ But I ain't sayin' I prefer them three days at the installation moppin' up Carter's mess; I would've slept better in the cooler."

"And smelled better."

"Leave off with that."

Corporal Langenscheidt, behind the wheel of Klink's staff car, pulled up in front of the Kommandant's office and braked to a stop. "Where's Klink off to?" Kinch asked nobody in particular.

When Klink exited the building, Carter took three steps in his direction. "Hi, Kommandant! Before you go, could we have just a couple words about the…"

He had his answer when Klink double-timed it to the car, dove in, and Langenscheidt took off in a cloud of dust. "Face it, Andrew, you're never gonna find out what happened to those Red Cross packages."

"Well, if that's not the rudest thing I ever saw! Boy, that burns me up!"

"Don't stand near Newkirk if you're burning up; he's still flammable," LeBeau advised, and earned himself a cuff on the back of the head from the Englishman for his attempt at wit.

oo 0 oo

Things weren't looking too good.

Lunchtime had come and gone. There had never been any breakfast. Finally, around three o'clock in the afternoon, one of the guards opened Hogan's cell door long enough to hastily deliver half a bowl of room-temperature oatmeal, then slammed the door shut again. Another bad sign. And he wasn't judging it only by the quality of the meal.

He'd been keeping a watchful eye on the minimal activities in the courtyard from his window. The guards' routine had been completely derailed, and nothing that went on down there was what he was used to seeing. There had been no additional sightings of Göring, or of Schreiner.

Thanks to the rudimentary but still functional "intercom" system of whispering through chinks in the mortar between the bricks, the prisoners in the barracks wing were still able to exchange what little information they were able to glean. Since some of the cell windows faced in different directions, Hogan had been able to learn from O'Brien, who had a clear view of the dock from his own cell at the other end of the corridor, that Göring's launch was still tied there. If Schreiner was no longer in official command at Castel Fiocco, which was possible considering the lambasting he'd received from the Field Marshal upon his arrival, the amenities under whoever was calling the shots at the moment left a lot to be desired. If it were Göring himself, the lack of attention to mealtimes was a bit of a disappointment… the guy sure didn't miss many himself, and the Geneva Convention had quite a bit to say about deprivations.

What was going on here? What was their end game?

Finally some more movement down below. Hogan watched as two rows of guards, ten in each row, assembled into formation in the exercise yard. Another guard… it might have been Gruber, but he couldn't be sure from this distance… barked out a brief set of commands that were carried away by the wind, making them inaudible from above. Then the group of twenty snapped a left-face and departed the exercise yard.

Hungry, he certainly was… but first things first, and his unappealing meal wasn't going to get any colder than it already was. Hogan crouched down next to the tiny opening between the bricks that connected him with Robinson's cell. "Twenty guards just left the exercise yard on direct command."

"Right-o," came the response, then Robinson no doubt went to the opposite wall to pass that observation along to the next man.

Hogan dipped the provided wooden spoon into the oatmeal and took a tentative taste. It didn't taste like anything, actually, so things could be worse. Well, he needed to keep his strength up; who knew what was in store for them, or how long it might be before anybody else got around to shoving something to eat past that locked door? He set himself to finishing it off without thinking too much about it. The faster he ate, the easier it went down.

"Hogan!"

The urgent whisper at the "intercom" came as he was just scraping the last little bit out of the bottom of the bowl, and he responded at once with his complete attention. "Yes, sir?"

"O'Brien reports that those twenty guards just boarded Göring's launch and left the island."

" _All_ of 'em? That's about a fifth of Schreiner's whole duty roster."

"That's right."

"One way to save on payroll."

"For Hermann to put in his own size 200 trouser pockets, perhaps?"

"This ever happened before?"

"Not to my knowledge. They tend to rotate off two, maybe three at a time when they replace personnel… not like them to be caught short-handed like this."

"No wonder we're locked up, if the prisoners outnumber the guards right now."

"I suppose we wait and see how many… if any… come back."

Hogan had a queasy feeling that had nothing to do with his unappetizing late lunch sitting in his stomach like a bowling ball. He strongly suspected that nobody _,_ save the crew of that launch, would be coming back. The only reason to take twenty guards off this rock at one time that he could think of…

… was that they didn't feel they _needed_ those twenty guards here anymore. That meant twenty fewer men to do basic essential tasks like feeding the locked-up POWs, which Hogan considered to be a very necessary activity, but was already showing distinct signs of being a low priority for their captors.

"I think we're in trouble."

"I'm afraid you're right," Robinson agreed.

oo 0 oo

Another twenty guards left the island just before sunset. Nobody ever bothered to bring the prisoners any dinner. And Hogan's hunch had been correct: according to O'Brien's reports from the other end of the corridor, the launch brought back only its own crew, no additional personnel. Basically the prisoners were watching everyone who was tasked with keeping them alive leave the island almost two dozen at a time, as if whether they lived or died was no longer of any interest to anyone but themselves.

Hogan had amended his original assessment to Robinson.

They weren't in trouble.

They were in _big_ trouble.


	30. Chapter 30

The vast clandestine intelligence network in the environs of London had several satellite locations, in order to ensure that critical Allied communications both locally and abroad remained reliable and timely. This particular center was located in the spacious cellar of a country estate in Surrey known as Woodland Park House. No matter what the day or hour, it buzzed with constant activity. Bombing raids might shake the nearby countryside on occasion, but the staff were as safe as they were going to get in the deep foundations of that stately pile. It was certainly safer than central London, yet only a mere half-hour away by train.

The rather matronly, no-nonsense woman monitoring the radio that afternoon had been stationed at Woodland Park since the center's inception at the very beginning of the war. This post was one of the oldest in the Resistance network, and ATS Sergeant Ingram was proud to have been a part of it from the start. She was rather serious, but that was what made her so good at her job; very level-headed and seldom became rattled at anything that might happen, whether it be the news that came over the radio or the occasional bombs that fell in the area. It was all in a day's work.

Something she had never grown accustomed to, though, were the never-predictable conversations she occasionally had with their operatives based at Stalag 13. They might well be making excellent progress in their direct attacks from deep inside Germany, and she wouldn't dispute that, but they never seemed interested in doing things in a logical and methodical way, which tended to clash with her own sensible nature. After the war, she was rather hoping she might meet them in person… and give them a piece of her mind.

So, when a message from the coast of Italy began to come in, she thanked her lucky stars that this time it wasn't Papa Bear with another confusing, half-coded message asking for diamonds, pizza recipes, penicillin, a half-million Marks in small bills, a rendezvous with a contact at Hammelburg Zoo because said contact was a chimpanzee, or some other off-beat request that would be difficult if not nearly impossible to fill… yet they would be required to do so, no matter how outrageous it might sound at first blush, because it was Papa Bear doing the asking. She began to take the message down dutifully as she signaled her commanding officer who stood nearby. "Sir, I have a priority alert coming in from Capizzio… it's Major Bonacelli."

The portly, balding Colonel Wembley crossed the windowless room to her radio set, cup of tea in hand. "Haven't heard from _him_ in a while… beginning to think he'd forgotten how to use the radio altogether."

Bonacelli… one of Papa Bear's protégés. The Italian officer had certainly been less than dependable; Ingram well knew that Colonel Wembley was entirely correct about that. Still, occasionally he did come up with some information that the Allies found useful. Maybe he was having a lucky day today. "He says he has additional information regarding Castel Fiocco."

"Ah… our Hogan's most recent handiwork. More good news, I hope?"

"Bonacelli reports an influx of a half-dozen new guards posted to his camp at Capizzio… they were transferred from the castel. He hadn't requested any reinforcements and doesn't know why he received them."

Wembley's eyebrow went up. "Indeed? Anything else?"

"Yes, sir…" She listened intently. The signal was weak. Likely Bonacelli had once again tried hiding his radio set in a pan of lasagna or some other inhospitable location. "One of those new guards got drunk last night… got his hands on a bottle of Chianti pretty nearly the moment he arrived, and spilled to Bonacelli that Field Marshal Göring arrived at the castel yesterday from Naples."

"Good heavens. Old Hermann had best watch his step 'round Hogan; little does he know that his setting foot on that island just now is tantamount to attempted suicide. The next thing to get blown up down there might be _him_." Wembley raised his teacup in a mock toast. "And here's hoping."

The message continued. "This guard also told Bonacelli… that Göring is _closing_ the Castel Fiocco camp, effective immediately. Nearly thirty percent of the guards have already been removed and reassigned."

Wembley's teacup nearly slipped from his fingers. " _Closing_? Is Bonacelli sure? That's the jewel of their entire camp network in western Italy; the Gerries have been boasting about it for months."

"He says he'll try to get more details after the guard comes to… apparently he had quite a night; he's still out cold."

"Has Bonacelli received any of _our_ fellows at Capizzio coming from the castel?"

"No, sir."

"Well, they _must_ be evacuating our chaps as well as their own."

Ingram shook her head. "All the Allied officers are still on the island, according to this guard's information. Bonacelli hasn't been able to learn anything from the others yet."

"Surely they couldn't intend to…" Then Wembley stopped himself. These were the lowest of the low. Of _course_ they could. "Tell Bonacelli to get the _other_ five drunk, on whatever vintage he can lay his hands on quickly… or do whatever else he needs to do to loosen their tongues a bit… and find out what's happening. Priority One. We can't leave a hundred officers just sitting there in an abandoned camp; it's possible we might need to mount a rescue operation." Göring was hardly a thoughtful and predictable man; he was impetuous and volatile, and there was no telling what his immense frustration might result in when it came to the tactical disaster that had befallen Castel Fiocco. Maybe the best thing they could hope for was that mere abandonment _was_ the plan; at least that would give the Allies some time to act if action became necessary.

The _worst_ thing that could happen was that the last rank of guards off that island might be charged with leaving no living witnesses. Quick and done. And if there were anyone capable of giving such an order without batting an eye, it was Reichsmarshal Hermann Göring.

oo 0 oo

By Day Two, room-temperature oatmeal would have looked pretty good to Hogan. He hadn't seen any since yesterday. Today he was dealing with a thick chunk of stale brown bread and half of a raw turnip. He wasn't sure which was intended to be breakfast and which was intended to be dinner. He hadn't figured out how to eat half a raw turnip yet either, but if that was all the maître d' was bringing, he sure wasn't planning to waste it.

Not being the type of officer who was ever without a Plan B for very long, he'd also spent a considerable amount of time since first light calculating how it might be possible to go right back out that window, the same one he'd crawled out on several occasions to set up the shipwreck, only this time make his way back across the peaked roof to the lighthouse and then climb down to the ground eighty feet below and arrive there in one piece. From his vantage point he could see a series of half-round metal rungs mounted on the brickwork of the lighthouse tower descending to ground level. They looked rusty. They looked loose. He was trying not to think too hard about that, because they also looked like the only way down.

It wasn't the right time to try it, and he hadn't even floated the idea to Robinson yet; there were still plenty of guards on the island to pose a significant challenge for any blatant attempts at escape. But it was on the very top of his list of things to do if the time came that O'Brien's count of guards leaving the island approached one hundred, no more of them could be spotted by any of the prisoners locked up in the barracks wing, _and_ if no food at all came through those doors for more than eight consecutive hours. He didn't intend to stay here so long that he might not have the strength to climb down or to find a way to liberate the rest of the men once he was on the ground. He didn't think much of the idea, knew it wasn't one of his best, but he liked it much better than the potential alternative.


	31. Chapter 31

Things were back to what now passed for normal at Stalag 13. Or, more accurately, _below_ Stalag 13.

"Next!" Carter paused to change flashbulbs while one pending escapee, newly outfitted in a business suit, moved out of the frame of his camera and another one moved in to have his fake ID photo taken. "Okay, hold it. Say 'Nazi'." He clicked the shutter, and the fresh flashbulb flared up in blinding white and blue. "Got it."

Nearby, Newkirk had just finished sewing the last button on the overcoat one of the escaping fliers would be wearing when he made his break. He bit off the thread and stuck the needle in the pincushion strapped to his left wrist, then handed the coat off to its wearer. "Here's how it works. The lot of you will follow LeBeau to the edge of the woods, and from there it's a straight shot into town. Give our regards to Georg at the hofbrau, and he'll point you in the direction of the next stop on the escape route."

Nearby, LeBeau was blackening his face with burned cork in preparation for a night outside the wire. His was going to be a double-duty assignment; first he would be escorting the three escaping fliers to the Hammelburg Road, and then meeting up with a local contact to pick up a map with details of troop movements south of the town. "And tomorrow night we raid the not-so-secret munitions cache in the woods near Pflenzheim to top off our supply of blasting caps, _non_?"

Kinch checked the clipboard that had the master schedule attached. "I actually think we might be double-booked… the ammo dump may have to wait until Thursday; we've got that meeting in town with the black-marketers tomorrow so we can look over their selection of blueprints… there might be something we can use."

"Then it will _definitely_ have to wait; I'm almost out of fresh tarragon."

"First things first, right?" Kinch grinned. "Okay, maybe you and Carter can go for the tarragon and Newkirk and I can make the ammo dump run. I think we can adjust the schedule to fit everything in."

"Speakin' of schedules, have you scheduled any actual _sleep_ into our evenin's this week?" Newkirk wanted to know.

"Maybe _next_ week. For the next few days it looks like we'll be putting in plenty of overtime."

"You guys are amazing." The pilot was now looking into a wall-mounted mirror beside which Carter held up a selection of neckties to complete his disguise, waiting for him to choose one. "Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

"Take a night off, apparently," Newkirk replied without missing a beat, but it was said with good humor. "And I like the green; I say go with that one."

"Job security, Newkirk," Kinch reminded him. "No layoffs, no unemployment. You guys realize how good we have it here?"

"We'll leave it to you to remind us with your usual annoyin' regularity." But Newkirk gave Kinch a pat on the back on his way by… this felt _good_ ; they were functioning at pretty much top capacity again, doing exactly what they had been stationed here to do, and in their estimation Kinch was doing a bang-up job running the show. They'd learned that the busier they were, the less time they had to think about… other things. The better they did their jobs, the better they felt about the one thing they _couldn't_ control. It sounded like Colonel Hogan had things well in hand in his new camp, if passing ships were exploding in the harbor. Maybe 'divide and conquer' would finish up the war that much sooner. There was something to be said for that notion. Still… this was _not_ the way any of them had wanted things to turn out.

And so they worked much harder, trying not to think about much more.

Finished with his camouflage efforts, LeBeau picked the green tie out of Carter's hand and passed it to the indecisive pilot. " _Voilà._ You're only going to England; you don't have to look good."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Newkirk challenged.

"After we get finished with _this_ war, the English and French are going to start up a new Hundred Years' War right here," Kinch advised the bemused pilot. "Only I think the new one might last _two_ hundred years."

"At least long enough for that tie to come back into style." LeBeau just barely dodged the pincushion Newkirk lobbed at him. "I'm going to go check for patrols."

"I hope you _find_ some!" Newkirk turned his attention back to the flier. "Don't listen to 'im. If you want advice on cookin' with fish heads, LeBeau's your man, but _I_ know haberdashery. The _green_ tie."

The pilot looped it around his shirt collar. "I kinda hate to leave; I was hoping to stay for the second show."

"Then how 'bout you stay here and _I'll_ go to England," Kinch suggested. "Carter, get going on those pictures for the identity papers; Newkirk, see what's happening in the compound, we don't want any surprises… I'll get on the radio and confirm the rendezvous at the hofbrau with Georg."

"Anything I can do?" the pilot asked.

Kinch waited until Newkirk was up the ladder and back in the barracks, then picked up a blue tie and handed it to him. "Yeah. Wear this one instead. That green one is terrible."

oo 0 oo

Hogan's best guess, judging from the overcast sun's path across the sky, was that six hours had passed since anyone's last sighting of a guard. In another two hours, a decision would have to be made. He'd spent a lot of time looking out the window at those metal rungs mounted on the outside of the lighthouse, trying to convince himself that _must_ be the way Crittendon had gotten up there… because if it was, then it had held his weight plus that of his unwieldy 'glider', and so could logically be expected to support Hogan's on a swift climb down to the ground.

He'd also paced for a while, and then decided that was no good. He should conserve his energy for later. So Hogan sat on the floor of his cell next to the 'intercom', his leather jacket balled up into a makeshift cushion between his head and the rough stone wall. He and Robinson had been killing time by talking, some military-related topics and some not. It was the first time since they'd been at the castel that they had had time to have a real one-on-one conversation. Even under their dire circumstances, Hogan found himself rather enjoying it.

"You likely don't recall meeting my brother Ronnie, considering the volume of escapees you and your men have processed through Stalag 13."

He'd been trying to remember anything at all about Robinson's brother, ever since first being told he'd been processed through their operation, without any luck. "Sorry, but I don't. That's a good thing, though… must have meant his escape went off without a hitch. It's the foul-ups I tend to remember."

"Oh, it certainly did. He was in awe of the smoothness of the organization you chaps had on that end… 'a knife through butter', he called it. Even had an English tailor kitting him up; that was a nice touch of home."

"Newkirk gets a lot of compliments. I guess you really know your job when guys running for their lives stop for a second to remark on how good the fit is."

"Do you suppose they're still in business with you here and all?"

"They _better_ be, or they'll have _me_ to answer to after the war. We didn't put that whole operation together just to fold it up for no good reason. Kinch is in charge; he'll keep the wheels from falling off. They all know what they're doing and they'll keep right on doing it."

"Ronnie mentioned your chef as well… I heard he served up a lovely dinner."

"Now, _him_ we could use right _here._ LeBeau can turn a can of Spam and some dandelion greens into a four-star entrée. He could even have figured out something to do with that half a turnip they tossed in here this morning."

"Oh, did _you_ get the other half? I wondered what had become of it."

Hogan couldn't resist a chuckle. "Yeah. I bet it didn't taste any better than yours did."

"So you had an English tailor, a French chef, your second-in-command…"

"And Carter. Very creative when it comes to explosives… designed some real nice centerpieces that blew a Kraut generals' conference room sky-high, a fountain pen that would _really_ write somebody off, all kinds of stuff… he sure would have loved watching that ship go up the other night."

"They sound like good men."

"The best."

The sound of a key in the lock of Hogan's cell had their immediate attention. When the door swung open and a guard entered, with a pistol in one hand and a set of manacles in the other, Hogan knew he could be sure of one thing.

This wasn't his waiter coming to tell him his table was ready.


	32. Chapter 32

ATS Sergeant Ingram had heard a lot during her time at the communications center at Woodland Park House, but she normally understood what it was that she was hearing. At the moment, what was coming over her headphone set was unclear… whatever it was, it was terribly loud.

"Anything new from Capizzio, Sergeant Ingram?" Wembley inquired.

"Yes sir, but…"

"But what?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but… I'm simply not sure what it _is_."

"Eh?"

She slipped her headset off and handed it to Wembley, who started to put it to his own ear and then backed it off. He could still hear, even with the headset a good six inches away. "Good heavens… is Bonacelli having a prison riot?"

"I don't know, sir; there's no one speaking into the microphone. All I can hear is that dreadful commotion in the background."

"Well, keep the frequency open and keep trying to raise Bonacelli."

"Yes, sir." She turned the incoming volume down a bit before replacing the headset over her own ears. "Goldilocks calling Capizzio… come _in_ , Capizzio…"

oo 0 oo

You could tell that a prison was short-staffed when they made you put on your own leg irons. Hogan briefly considered the idea of not putting them on all that securely, then dismissed it. The pistol trained on his head at point-blank range stated the guard's case very clearly: as Schultz used to say, 'no monkey business'. He snapped the padlock so it made a very distinct click that the guard could easily hear.

He'd waited too long. Any chance he'd had to get out the window and from there down to the ground had been blown. He realized it might well be the last mistake he'd ever make.

Once his ankles were securely chained together, the guard gestured for him to move toward the open door of the barracks wing. So they were going for a walk. It went without saying that it would likely be one-way. He picked up his jacket and slipped it on, and donned his cap as well… whatever was going to happen to him, he preferred that it happen when he was in uniform. "Robinson?" he called towards the locked door of the nearby cell.

"Yes, Hogan?"

"Give my regards to Ronnie."

"Hogan, I…"

No time for anything more. The obviously impatient guard made another gesture with the pistol, and Hogan bet that he wouldn't bother using just the gun part without the bullets again. He started to make his awkward, hobbling way towards the staircase. Swell. Leg irons and stone steps were a bad combination. Maybe he'd break his neck on the way down and save them a bullet.

Not such a big surprise to wind up in the empty exercise yard. Sure, why _not_ here? He hadn't liked it during all those hours he'd spent walking in circles or standing in formation, and he didn't like it any better now when he was led into it all by himself by the lone guard. Automatically he scanned the stone walls for signs of bullet holes at chest height. He hadn't heard any shots earlier, but what else could they have brought him here for? Maybe he was 'lucky' enough to be the first one?

But rather than stand him up against the wall and perhaps go through the classic B-movie gesture of offering him a blindfold, the guard motioned for him to keep walking, towards the now-open doorway that led to the main castel. Well, that brought two more unpleasant possibilities to mind: Schreiner's office, or the crypt. Neither of those appealed to him in the slightest.

The guard motioned for him to keep walking right past the main staircase… up led to Schreiner's office, down led to the crypt, yet the guard continued to lead Hogan along at ground level. It was a little hard to be absolutely certain given the circumstances of his arrival, but Hogan was fairly sure he'd been down this corridor once before: the day he'd walked in the front gate with a hood over his head.

oo 0 oo

"Colonel Wembley, I have Major Bonacelli… I think."

"He refuses to identify himself?"

"He seems more _unable_ to identify himself… sir, this man is _drunk_."

" _Drunk_?" Wembley gestured impatiently to the radio set. "Put him on the speaker."

"Yes, sir." And gladly. Ingram had had about enough of the nonsense being forced directly into her ears; she hit the toggle that connected the external speaker. "Go ahead, Capizzio."

" _Buonasera, Londra!_ " an overly cheerful voice greeted them. " _Ecco Capizzio!_ "

"Bonacelli, is that _you_?" Wembley demanded. Behind him, the earlier commotion they'd overheard was still going on; it made Bonacelli that much harder to understand.

" _Ah, Colonnello Wembley… that was a fantastico idea you had about offering our new guards some wine to get them talking. Naturally I felt it was my duty to join them… I would never ask any soldier under my command to do something I myself would not do… you understand…_ "

"Did you _learn_ anything, Bonacelli?" Wembley pressed on.

" _Oh yes… German soldiers cannot sing on key, no matter how much Sangiovese you give them. You should hear what they did to 'Santa Lucia'…_ "

"About Castel Fiocco! About Hogan!"

" _Oh,_ _that_ _… si, colonnello… the guards say that Signore Göring will soon make arrangements to have all the prisoners returned to the mainland… from there they will be transported to other camps, but they think that none of them will come here_."

"Are you certain?"

" _Colonnello, a man who has been drinking may lie about many things, but normally it is either about women or money, no? And they look like nice enough fellows to me… even if they_ _are_ _Germans._ "

Ingram's eyes met Wembley's. "Do you think it's possible, sir?"

"Anything's _possible…_ including that the guards were only fed that story to get them to leave the island without asking questions."

" _Colonnello, speaking of questions_ …"

"Yes, Bonacelli?"

" _This interrogation ran into a bit of an expense, as you can perhaps imagine… might it be possible for London to, how do you English say it… 'pick up the check'? The lira buys almost nothing as it is; when you look at how much these guards can drink, mamma mia…_ "

"The nerve…" Wembley fumed. The noise in the background reached a crescendo… now that Wembley had more information, it did indeed sound like it could be nothing else but five thoroughly sloshed German soldiers trying to sing an Italian song, rather than the out-of-control prison riot he had first taken it for.

" _We are finished here, colonnello? I would like to get back to the party_."

"Go ahead…" he sighed. No use wasting any more time on this. "Goldilocks out."

" _Grazie! Hey, soldati, one more time for 'Santa Lucia', maybe this time you get it right, eh?_ " The connection went dead.

"What do you think we should do, sir?" Ingram asked, after a few awkward moments of silence.

For once, Wembley himself was completely unsure. "Well, if that information is correct, I suppose we can cancel any emergency assistance to Hogan at Castel Fiocco… although I must say, it sounds like Bonacelli could certainly use some at Capizzio."

oo 0 oo

The main gate of the castel was open, and the guard kept propelling him towards it. Well, that had to be it, then. The old 'shot while trying to escape' dodge, and he would be taken out by a marksman at any moment. If that was their plan, though, it was going to look pretty ridiculous… how many prisoners ever made a run for it with their ankles chained together, after all? Göring himself might have a hard time explaining that at a war crimes trial later on. Hogan steeled himself, held his head up, walked out the open gate…

… and nothing happened.

oo 0 oo

Robinson, dreading the sound of a shot, was instead urgently summoned to the 'intercom' on the other side of his cell from Hogan's now-empty one. "Sir! O'Brien is reporting from the end of the corridor… activity at the dock!"


	33. Chapter 33

Amazing.

Hogan stood on the dock, watching all the bustle around him with fascination. Once the necessary decisions had been made and Göring had given them their marching orders, the remaining guards moved with remarkable speed and efficiency. They most likely wanted it over with, and _him_ out of there, as fast as possible. Every day they were all still here was a day the Field Marshal could decide to start knocking some heads together, and no guard left on that island was eager to try his infamously limited patience.

Another twenty of them were being loaded onto Göring's launch. Nearby, the same rickety old boat that had brought Hogan to the island, and obviously hadn't seen any maintenance since then, was being readied for transport as well. That one was going to be taking a group of prisoners: in the twenty minutes or so that Hogan had been standing here, eight more Allied officers had been brought out of the castel, similarly restrained, and lined up behind him on the dock. Exactly where they were going remained unclear, but who cared? Off this rock and back to the mainland sounded just fine for starters. He only hoped the flimsy dinghy had one more trip left in it; it looked like it had come from the _Titanic'_ s going-out-of-business sale.

When he heard the sound of manacles rattling toward him from behind, he turned. "Fancy meeting you here," Robinson smiled with obvious relief.

"Fancy being here at _all_ … I was pretty sure when they pushed me out the front gate that they _weren't_ planning to take me for a boat ride."

"I got a little bit out of Gruber just now… not much… there'll be trucks for us all on the mainland, each one destined for a different geographical area. Your lot of ten is heading for northwestern Germany."

That piqued Hogan's interest right away. "Anywhere in particular?"

"Düsseldorf area, according to Gruber's roster." His smiled matched Hogan's. "I'm led to believe that many of us will be going right back where we came from… they can't keep us all in this area; an extra hundred men would overrun the local camps, and particularly with this lot who's already rather expert in raising a fuss, the nasties seem to feel it would be best if they spread us out a bit."

So much for Castel Fiocco. Kick some dirt over the whole thing and pretend it never happened; that was the way it went with the German High Command... that way they could avoid being too embarrassed about their failures. The faster this was covered up, the better Göring would like it. It made sense. No wonder he was sticking around to supervise. "And where are _you_ off to?"

"Most likely back to Stalag 10, or possibly 4. There are new kommandants at both of them since my escapes, so I won't feel entirely at home, but hopefully I won't be there long enough for it to make much difference."

"Not even there yet and already thinking about how to get out?"

"Naturally. But I might well get a bit more creative with my methods in future, after working with you."

"If you ever find yourself in our neighborhood, be sure and stop by for a hot meal and an escape back to England. We offer a family discount."

"I shall certainly bear that in mind."

The two of them were forced to take a couple of shuffling steps back when a couple of guards passed in front of them using the butts of their rifles as prods. Neither of them thought much of it until they saw why the way was being cleared: Kommandant Schreiner was approaching. He'd put on some weight since Hogan had last seen him: about fifty pounds of iron chains. The manacles both he and Robinson were sporting looked to be mere ankle bracelets by comparison; Schreiner's wrists were bound across his chest and another length of heavy chain connected his arms to his feet. He eyed the two of them with utter contempt as he was shoved along by two of his own former guards. He didn't need to know exactly _how_ they were responsible for what was happening to him… he just _knew_.

"My guess is he's not expecting us to salute," Hogan asided to Robinson.

The two of them watched the former kommandant being loaded onto Göring's launch like so much freight, bound for somewhere he wouldn't want to be going if he'd had anything at all to say about the matter. It might be the last time just about _anybody_ would see him alive again. _Arrivederci_ … and good riddance.

The guard in charge of the small boat for the first group of prisoners blew a whistle and gestured, and the group of Allied officers standing nearby began to move towards it, shepherded by additional armed guards. "I believe this is your boarding call," Robinson said. "I must say, Hogan, it's been a distinct pleasure. And I _do_ mean that sincerely."

"Thank you, sir. I consider it a privilege serving under your command."

That was good for a laugh from Robinson. "Under _my_ command? You may have that the wrong way about… it seems to me that _I've_ been following _your_ lead of late. And it turned out smashingly."

Hogan saluted, Robinson reciprocated. Then they shook hands. The guard's whistle blew a second time. Hogan took the hint, turned, and started to hobble towards the waiting boat.

oo 0 oo

"A new transmission from Italy, Colonel Wembley."

"Bonacelli again?"

" _No._ " Her firm, cool tone indicated that she doubted Bonacelli would be of any further assistance or usefulness even if he _had_ been on the frequency, and she was quite relieved that he was not. "An enemy transmission from the coastal area; I believe it's the same source that broadcast the bulletin about the explosion near Castel Fiocco. It appears that the information Major Bonacelli received from the guards was accurate… reports of considerable movement in the area… small boats, trucks, and the like. Personnel are definitely being evacuated from the castel… both theirs _and_ ours."

"Well, that's a relief. And do we know anything about where they're bound?"

"They report that kommandants of many of the POW camps in western Germany and eastern France are being alerted to expect new officers. Stalag 13 is one of them."

"Extraordinary. You don't think…"

"It's possible, sir."

Might the Gerries conveniently put Hogan right back where he belonged, without any intervention at all? Could they possibly be that lucky? The operation appeared to be functioning adequately at the moment, but Wembley had had a few reservations about that all along. A new officer… or even better, an _old_ one… in place at 13 would be a benefit to all concerned, no doubt about it.

"Should we inform Papa Bear, Colonel Wembley?"

"Only that they should expect a new officer… and see if you can get an estimated date of arrival out of those German transmissions. We don't _know_ that it will be Hogan, after all. Might as well wait 'til the dust settles and we all know what's what."

"Right away, sir."

oo 0 oo

Kinch climbed slowly and quietly up out of the tunnel. The lights in the barracks were all out, and everyone was sound asleep. Well, they wouldn't be for long. And it was likely that everyone would remain wide awake until dawn after they heard what he had to tell them.

It was snowing lightly outside, and the fire in the barracks was down to a few embers. Kinch stuck a couple sticks of wood in to stoke it up. Who was he kidding? He was just stalling. He didn't want to say this any more than the others would want to hear it. Might as well get it over with.

He gave LeBeau's shoulder a light shove; the Frenchman turned over and ignored him. "Louis… wake up."

"Why…?" he muttered into his blanket.

"I just got a message from London. We need to talk."

"I talk better in daylight…"

Kinch moved on to Newkirk. "Hey Newkirk…"

Newkirk deigned to open one eye about halfway, just enough to focus on the sergeant. "I distinctly asked for five-foot-two, eyes of blue… you ain't even _close_ , mate…" The eye closed again.

"Get up… I had a message from London; it's important."

"Have a heart, Kinch… we been up half the night; we're only gonna get a couple hours of kip before roll call as it is…"

"Yeah, I know. Sorry." He bent down and gave Carter a shake. "Andrew… are you awake?"

"No…" Andrew groaned, sounding exhausted. "Leave a message…"

"Everybody up. I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important."

They could grumble all they liked, but they all knew they were going to do it anyway. Yawning and stretching, and LeBeau with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the late-night chill in the drafty barracks, they all shuffled only half-awake into Colonel Hogan's old office, and Kinch closed the door. This was as good a place as any. Maybe it was even the _best_ place.

No time to mince words or play guessing games. As soon as they were all inside and the door was closed, leaving them all in just the minimal light that found its way around the window shutters, Kinch dove right in. "Goldilocks advises that we've got a new CO on his way."

"What for?" Carter challenged, suddenly fully awake. "We're doing _great._ And _now_ they wanna send in some new guy to tell us what to do?"

"That's the idea," Kinch nodded. "And we didn't actually do that great a job with that film, if you remember… Newkirk getting captured, the courier plane getting shot down and all."

"It wasn't _our_ fault the ruddy plane got shot down!" Newkirk insisted.

"You mean the first one or the second one?"

" _Either_ of 'em! And _you're_ the bloke who come up with the idea how to get me outta that installation, nice as you please, _and_ how to get that film off to London along with Gordon. If you ask me, _you're_ the only CO we need 'round here!"

"That goes for me too," Carter nodded.

" _Et moi aussi_ ," from LeBeau. "Let's just tell London we don't need a new officer. We've got Kinch."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, fellas, but London's not asking our opinion; they're telling us the guy's on his way. We better start making up an extra bunk."

"The top one next to the door is _mine_!" Newkirk reiterated. "I don't care if they send us a four-star general; he _ain't_ gettin' _that_ one!"

Kinch glanced around at the stacked crates. "We'll have to get all this stuff outta here, I guess."

"I say we let him do it 'imself. This ain't the bleedin' Savoy, and we're fresh outta them little mints for the pillow."

"Well, who _is_ this guy? What do we know about him? Has he got any experience?" Carter was starting to sound a lot like a personnel director all of a sudden.

"All London says is that he's a transfer prisoner coming in on a truck, most likely on Monday. We don't have to like it, we just have to accept it."

So much for his brief career as the man in charge. Apparently London hadn't thought much of it. Even if only to himself, Kinch had to admit that it was a letdown. They'd overcome seemingly endless obstacles to get those pictures taken and _re-_ taken, sent them off twice, and then three times before it finally panned out. Sure, Newkirk had taken an unscheduled detour, but here he was back in one piece and none the worse for wear. Gordon was safely in England and would be back in the air soon, if he wasn't already. Not a bad result. Mission accomplished and everybody safe, and Stalag 13 was still up and running… but in spite of his years of experience in this operation, it looked as if London didn't think he was capable of leading it.

Up until just now, Kinch would have said that he'd learned plenty from Colonel Hogan about planning, execution, teamwork, how to react when something inevitably went wrong, and how to get things back on track. Apparently not enough. And the worst of it was that he couldn't help feeling that somehow this new development meant that he'd let the colonel down.

Well, it was what it was. They had a new CO on the way, and there were a lot of changes in store.

oo 0 oo

Some things _never_ changed.

After a precarious, white-knuckled trip back to shore fighting the currents in the flimsy dinghy, which didn't ride any more steadily in the water with ten men in it than it had with just two, Hogan reached the mainland swearing never to so much as board a swan boat on a Fourth of July weekend ever again. But things were indeed looking up: once he and the others had their feet back on dry land, one of the first things they found was that the truck heading for western Germany already included one man, which completed their group of ten: a bedraggled Crittendon, with his left arm in a crude sling fashioned from his white scarf, and a stunned look on his face… stunned even for _him_.

So the Birdman of Castel Fiocco _had_ survived his cockamamie attempt at escape. For the first time in his life, Hogan had to admit that he was actually glad to see him. But within about half an hour of being on the road, the satisfaction of finding Crittendon alive and reasonably well had struck Hogan pretty much as it always did: so sick of the sound of his voice that he had briefly wondered if their guards would notice – or indeed, even mind very much – if he simply chucked the Brit out the back of the troop truck as they moved down the road and left him to fend for himself.

"Can't imagine where I went wrong…" Crittendon mused for at least the fourth time during their very first half-hour underway. "Had the wind at my back… caught a devil of a downdraft somehow…"

The fly in the ointment was plain old-fashioned _gravity_ , in Hogan's considered opinion. He'd had an engine cut out on him once during a training flight, and it was no joke how quickly one could lose lift when the thrust wasn't there to support the wings. From Crittendon's ramblings, it sounded like he had been just lucky enough to catch sufficient lift that night to drop him more or less gently into a relatively shallow part of the harbor, well away from the burning munitions ship, where he had somehow hung on and managed not to drown under the weight of his cumbersome "glider" until Göring's launch had picked him up on the way by on one of its trips to shore offloading the guards. Sure… Crittendon got to take the Field Marshal's launch; Hogan had been consigned to the dinghy that would make a pile of matchsticks look robust. That figured.

With all said and done, even in spite of Crittendon's repetitive prattle and knowing that he had hundreds of miles of it yet to endure, Hogan was satisfied. The Castel Fiocco project had been scrapped by none other than Reichsmarshal Göring himself, live and in-person, with it now being crystal clear to the Germans that it actually might not be such a great idea to put all the most potentially troublesome prisoners in one place, where they might put their heads together and impose disastrous consequences on the Axis war effort… even if in this case the Axis couldn't actually be certain that they'd done anything at all. Nobody except for the hundred-odd self-satisfied Allied officers knew what had really happened that night. All in all, an excellent result.

He was even satisfied with his reassignment.


	34. Chapter 34

Monday was wash day. Monday was also the day the men in Barracks 2 had been dreading, and it wasn't getting any better as they stood outside squeezing cold water and lye soap through their socks and undershirts, all of them with one eye on the gate watching for the truck carrying their new commanding officer to arrive.

"Maybe they'll get lost," Carter suggested. It was one of many ideas he'd had so far that morning, starting with "Maybe they'll run out of gas" and running the gamut to "Maybe there'll be an air raid and the whole road will blow up".

"Maybe _you_ oughta stop washin' that same sock over and over before you wear it clear through," Newkirk advised.

"Oh." Carter dutifully draped it over the improvised clothesline and reached for the next one. "Maybe the truck driver will defect and decide to go to Switzerland, and he'll take the new CO with him. I mean, _I'd_ go, if it were up to me."

"If it were up to _me,_ I'd _send_ you. Now get busy; we got a lot of washin' to get through before noon roll call."

LeBeau was the first one to spot the truck coming down the road outside the wire. "Uh oh…" When it slowed as it approached the front gate, preparing to turn, he sounded even more anxious. " _Uh oh…_ I think this is it…"

Kinch looked up, and Newkirk and Carter stopped their quibbling to do likewise. There it was, the anticipated but unwelcome canopy truck, pausing at the gate to get its authorization to enter the camp.

"I was hopin' it wouldn't get here meself." Newkirk tossed the undershirt he'd been rinsing back into the water in a wadded-up ball. "Guess we've had it, mates."

"Newkirk, whoever this guy is, he _is_ on _our_ side," Kinch reminded him. "If I were you I wouldn't start out by getting under his skin. Give him a chance. Maybe he'll fit right in."

"You think so, do you?"

Kinch paused. He wasn't a man to stretch the truth. "Not really. There'll never be another Colonel Hogan."

Now inside the gate, the truck proceeded slowly to the center of the compound just outside the Kommandant's office, stopped, and the driver alighted. LeBeau covered his eyes with his hands. "I can't watch. Tell me how bad it is."

When the driver lowered the tailgate and a familiar officer climbed out, none of the four men looking on could believe their own eyes.

"Holy _cow_ , that's _Crittendon!_ " Carter squawked.

"Oh, it _can't_ be!" Kinch groaned.

But there was no mistaking that jaunty wave or the cheery smile of recognition he gave upon spotting the men. "I say, chaps!"

"I _ain't_ doin' it!" Newkirk headed for the barracks without even considering a salute to his superior, and shoved the door open so hard it banged against the sink and bounced back hard enough to almost hit him in the face. "Is there such a thing as a dry-land mutiny?"

LeBeau was right behind him. "If there isn't, let's invent one!"

"London thinks _I_ can't do a better job than _him_?" Kinch was as outraged as anyone had ever seen him. "You think the Germans would let me defect to their side?"

"I don't want _him_ in my lab," Carter stated firmly. The last one inside, he slammed the barracks door behind him… possibly the first door mild-mannered Andrew Carter had ever slammed in his entire life. "He _drops_ things… even more than _I_ do!"

Crittendon stood aside to allow Hogan to hop down from the back of the truck. "Home sweet home old boy, what?"

Nothing – not even Crittendon – was going to ruin this moment for Hogan. The Germans had thrown the dice on his fate and rolled snake-eyes. He'd led Robinson's inexperienced but willing and able men in blowing a munitions ship out of its own harbor without even getting anywhere near it. He'd fed Kommandant Ferdinand Schreiner's military career into a meat grinder. He'd personally sent Hermann Göring's blood pressure higher than the Fokker D-VII the Field Marshal had flown in the last war. And now he was back where he belonged. This was a _perfect_ moment.

Except…

"I wonder where the fellas are… usually they're on the lookout for incoming vehicles."

"Your men? Why, they're right over…" But when Crittendon glanced back towards Barracks 2, all he saw was an abandoned washboard, a clothesline with a few socks dripping cold water onto the sand below, and a tub half-full of soapsuds. "Extraordinary thing… they were right over there just a moment ago, the whole bally lot of them."

Schultz came around the back of the truck just then, intent on the clipboard in his hands. "Crittendon, Rodney, Colonel…" He flipped that page over with determination and gave Crittendon a severe look. " _You_ , you are going on to Stalag 6… _Gott sei dank._ Only the other _Offizier_ is staying."

"Hi Schultz," Hogan grinned.

"Good morning, Colonel Hogan. Have you seen the officer who is being transferred?"

"He must be around here someplace. Why don't you check your list?"

"Ah." Schultz ran his eyes down the page to the appropriate entry. "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel. There he is." It all came together in Schultz's mind in the next split second, and he looked up. " _There_ he _is_!"

It had been a very long time since Hogan had seen a smiling guard. Well, at least there was one person happy to see him. "Did you miss me?"

The delighted look on Schultz's face pretty much said it all. "You are _back!_ "

"Looks that way. Go ahead and check me off to make it official before somebody changes their mind… one bad penny, back in circulation." When Schultz remained too stunned to move at all, Hogan took the pencil from his hand and checked his own name off the list. "There you go. Say, did I miss anything while I was gone?"

Schultz rolled his eyes. " _Ach du Lieber…_ the anti-aircraft installation… the explosion… _Newkirk,_ he was both _here_ and _there_ at the same time… there was strudel… and _oho_ , the _Kommandant_ …"

Hogan was just about to suggest that they get together later on and try to put all of that together in some kind of cognitive order, when as if on cue the melodious voice of their illustrious Kommandant reached their ears. "Schultz! Get this truck out of here! General Burkhalter will be here within the hour, and there must be a place for his car right in front of my office!"

Hogan smoothly shifted gears. "General Burkhalter's coming? Why wasn't I informed?"

"Because he is coming to see _me,_ and his visit has nothing to do with _you_ , Colonel…" The look on Klink's face was considerably less welcoming than Schultz's had been a minute ago. " _Hogan…?_ " The word came out in a strangled gasp.

"Morning, Kommandant," he smiled. "Or _bongiorno_ … I did pick up a thing or two while I was gone."

"There has been some mistake…" Klink grabbed the clipboard out of Schultz's hands. "I _know_ there has been some mistake!"

"I'll say! I wound up on some lopsided rock off the only ugly part of the whole coast of Italy; biggest mistake I ever saw. I intend to write the Red Cross _and_ my Congressman. Hey, by the way, speaking of the Red Cross… the men _have_ been getting their packages on schedule, right?"

Klink flipped desperately through the rest of the papers on the clipboard. There was nothing there to help him. His 'new' prisoner was right here in front of him; it said so in black and white, with an embossed swastika seal to eliminate all doubt. "Oh, no…"

"Don't worry; we'll make up for lost time. I'll stop by your office bright and early tomorrow and we'll get things back on track. If General Burkhalter's still here, he's welcome to join us."

"Hogan!"

"All right; we'll make it just you and me if you'd rather. He's kind of a dull conversationalist anyway; probably wouldn't add much to the meeting. No sense of humor." Saying any- and everything he felt like saying seemed nearly a lost art after all this time; Hogan was very much looking forward to getting back into practice.

Klink had lost patience… and pretty much all hope. There was nothing else left to say. He clenched his fist in impotent rage, turned on his heel, and marched up the steps to his office.

"I will have this truck moved right away for General Burkhalter's car, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz called after him.

"If Burkhalter has to walk a few extra steps, so what? He can use the exercise!" Klink stomped across the landing and slammed the door behind him, detaching a row of icicles from the edge of the roof and sending them plummeting to the ground.

"Suppose I'd best be motoring on, old boy." Crittendon saluted, and Hogan was in a good enough mood to snap one right back at him. "Do keep in touch. And if I'm ever back in your area, I'll…"

"…keep right on going. Straight to England. Escape, escape, escape… remember?"

"Right you are. Of course." He climbed back into the truck, and the driver closed and latched the tailgate. Hogan stood and watched until it was safely outside the front gate and out of sight, so he could be absolutely certain that Crittendon had gone with it. Klink was the _only_ one who was going to be getting any nasty personnel-related surprises today, if he could help it. Crittendon on the _other_ side of the barbed wire and headed _away_ from this camp was something he needed to see with his own eyes. That important detail accomplished, he strolled casually over to Barracks 2 and opened the door, ready to accept everyone's warm welcome-home and congratulations on his safe return.

Not a man in sight.

Interesting.

Hogan glanced over at the abandoned washing, just a few feet away outside in the compound. They couldn't have gone far. Crittendon said he'd seen them right over here.

Wait.

If Crittendon had seen _them_ , that meant _they_ had most likely seen _Crittendon_. And if they _had_ …

Hogan laughed out loud. "I love it…" Oh well. They'd have to come out sometime; they couldn't hide in the tunnel forever.

There was fresh coffee on the stove, and he poured himself a cup. It was _real_ coffee, too, not that awful stuff the prisoners had had to choke down at the castel, and it was piping hot instead of lukewarm. That really hit the spot after those long days and nights getting bounced around in the backs of trucks, covering hundreds of miles on mountain roads in dire need of repair. Next he walked over to the door of his quarters, opened it and took a look inside. "Well, all _that's_ gotta go… I'm gone a few weeks and the Krauts turn my office into a tool shed? Maybe I really _will_ write that letter to my Congressman."

One more look at the empty barracks. "Well… I could go down to the tunnel." He took another sip of coffee. "Or I guess I could go finish the laundry." He sat down on Kinch's bunk, the one that opened up from below… but not if someone was sitting on it. "Or maybe I'll just sit right here a while."

oo 0 oo

Nearly half an hour later, when it was time for noon roll call and Hogan still hadn't seen hide nor hair of any of his men, it was time to try a new approach. He'd been off the bunk and outside the barracks for twenty minutes, yet they still hadn't come out to face the music. It was a battle of wills now: who was more stubborn, him or them?

He was leaning casually against the outside barracks wall, enjoying the warmth of the late-morning sunshine on his face in spite of having his leather jacket zipped up against the chilly early-spring weather, more or less in his customary place for roll call, when Schultz approached with his whistle and clipboard. "The men are happy you are back, Colonel, _ja_?" he asked with a smile.

Hogan shrugged. "I'm not sure. I haven't found them yet."

So much for Schultz's smile. "You _don't_ think they _escaped_?"

"Let's hope not." Maybe _that_ was it; they'd all gone out through the tree stump and started themselves on the escape route. Well, that was exactly what he'd told them to do in case of emergency… and brother, the idea of Crittendon taking command of the Stalag 13 operation would definitely qualify as an emergency. But a few thumps and muffled voices from below when he'd been sitting on Kinch's bunk earlier had pretty well convinced him that they hadn't gone far. "You mind going into the barracks and giving them a little _raus_ -ing out here for roll call? Tell them their _commanding officer_ wants them out here on the double. And you might want to put some emphasis on 'commanding'."

"I don't understand… why don't they want to see you?"

"I'm just guessing, Schultz, but I think _they_ think the new senior POW is Crittendon, and they're not exactly in a hurry to roll out the Welcome Wagon."

Schultz engaged in a brief, silent prayer as he approached the barracks door. _Please, everybody… be in there._ Then he pushed it open.

He was gone for about a minute. When he came back outside, he closed the door gently behind him, then went to rejoin Colonel Hogan. "They are all in there," he reported calmly.

"Why aren't they all out _here_?"

"They gave me a brief message to say to their 'commanding officer'."

"Swell. Let me have it."

"What does it mean, to 'buzz off'?" Schultz raised an eyebrow indicating that he knew perfectly well what it meant, and also that the message had not been intended for Colonel Hogan.

"It means they all just lost their good conduct medals, for starters." Hogan took the roll call whistle from Schultz's hand, pulled in a deep breath, and blew like a Times Square traffic cop on New Year's Eve.

" _Raus!_ " Schultz added at the top of his voice. "Everybody _raus,_ roll call!"

The slow-moving column of unenthusiastic men who shuffled out of the barracks at a snail's pace wasn't going to win any awards for being present and correct… or punctual… or anything else. They didn't even bother to look up as they scuffed their way across the frozen ground and took their accustomed places in the formation.

Hogan cast his eyes skyward. What did he have to do to get noticed by his own side around here, anyway? Finally he settled on the tried and true, snapping "Atten- _shun_!" in his best commanding-officer voice, the one he hadn't been able to use in much too long. It did the trick: fourteen heads suddenly swiveled in his direction. "Did you hear me say 'right face'?" he sighed, doing his best to contain a smile. "I said _attention_. There's a difference. We'll work on it."

" _Colonel Hogan_!"

Schultz tucked his clipboard under his arm and looked on indulgently. Roll call was going to be a little late today. _Macht nichts._ He already knew all were present.

Hogan instantaneously found himself surrounded, pelted with a barrage of welcomes, cheering, anxious questions, and just plain old back-slapping atta-boys. "All right, all right, settle down," he finally told them… it wasn't easy; after all, he was every bit as happy to see them as they were to see him.

"Is that an order?" Kinch chuckled. "Because if it is, I think you might have to court-martial the whole bunch of us for not following it."

"We want to hear _everything_!" LeBeau insisted. "Did you really blow up a munitions ship in the harbor?"

"Good news travels fast, huh?"

"How'd you ever manage it, sir?" Newkirk pressed. "I can't hardly…"

"Wait a second," Kinch interrupted, "let's all back up and start over with the most important question… are you _okay_ , Colonel?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Just a little worn out. I couldn't get a reservation in First Class, and it was a long trip."

"You've lost weight," LeBeau observed with obvious disapproval. "Don't worry; I can fix that in no time."

"Their menu left a little to be desired, I'll admit. And I thought Italy was known for its cooking… just my luck to wind up in the only dive."

"I'll make you a nice lunch right after roll call, and I'll prepare a five-course dinner for tonight. If you have seconds on everything, that makes ten courses. It's a start. What would you like? Just name it."

 _Anything but turnips and oatmeal_ was the first thing that popped into his head. "Surprise me." It was a safe bet that LeBeau would never dream of using either of those ingredients in a celebratory dinner. An eel head, maybe… but he could cross that bridge when he came to it. Maybe he wouldn't even mind it.

"And I have a bold, impudent little red wine all ready for tasting… it's been in the bottle almost a week."

"I gotta admit, I'm pretty beat; one drink will probably put me under the table."

"Oh, sir, surely you can't deny us all a toast," Newkirk insisted. "After all, we've got our gov'nor back! And while LeBeau's cookin', Andrew and I'll chuck all that muck in your office out to make room for your bunk again. Won't take us no time at all."

"A good night's sleep and you'll be your old self in the morning," Kinch assured him. "But yeah; we need at _least_ one toast of LeBeau's _vin ordinaire_ over dinner. We haven't had any news _this_ good in… well, probably forever."

"I'm glad to see you guys too." _Really_ glad. Maybe more than he could ever tell them. And if he _did_ start to slide under the table after a single glass of LeBeau's vintage-Tuesday beaujolais… well, he could be sure someone would be there to catch him.

He realized that there was one voice he hadn't heard yet, though. Hogan turned a little to his left to find Carter standing a couple of paces away, hands jammed in his pockets, looking tense and maybe even a little scared. "What's the problem, Carter?"

"Geez, if you have to _ask_ … I mean… Colonel Hogan, I am _so sorry…_ it was _all_ my fault… the whole thing… everything that happened in the fruit store in town… if I hadn't forgotten my identity papers… if I hadn't wanted a couple of apples… I mean, _none_ of this ever would have happened. I bet it was just _awful_ in that place."

True enough. The low points of his stay at the no-stars Castel Fiocco Hilton still haunted the edges of Hogan's mind on long dark nights. He couldn't claim he'd never awakened suddenly, short of breath, thinking he was back in the crypt. He certainly hadn't forgotten Dowling and Drake, drowned in the escape tunnel. Or the various indignities that had been heaped on him by Schreiner over the past few weeks: chopping endless turnips while the kommandant stood and watched as if it were being done solely for his own entertainment, and sometimes even withholding the most basic and unappetizing of food just because he could. Or the endless, mindless walking in circles in the exercise yard with rain pouring down, soaking him to the bone. But Hogan knew he wasn't likely to be telling Carter about any of _that,_ at least not for a long time… no good _both_ of them having nightmares. He took a step towards the sergeant, and calmly rested both hands on his shoulders. There _was_ something he _did_ want Andrew to know. And it was important.

Carter squeezed his eyes shut, looking like he fully expected that the next thing he heard would be his stripes getting ripped off the sleeves of his fatigues, and would consider himself lucky if he got to keep the sleeves. "It's okay, sir. Let me have it. Bust me. Yell at me. I deserve it. I know what a foul-up I am… but honest, I am _really sorry…_ "

"Carter…"

"Sir…?"

"I got to watch _Crittendon_ jump off a _lighthouse_ with a _hang-glider_." He laughed out loud; in his mind's eye he could still see Crittendon hanging there in mid-air with the spotlight on him, kicking and screaming and drifting out of sight behind the lighthouse. "I wouldn't have missed _that_ for the _world._ "

"You mean… you're _not_ gonna bust me…?"

"Well, not today… remind me to think about it some more tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

Sometimes you just couldn't kid around with Carter; he was too literal and didn't track too well, especially when he got nervous. Hogan gave him a chummy clap on the back. "Right. You do that."

"What's all this about Crittendon?" Newkirk asked. "We saw 'im get off the truck… blimey, we thought _he_ was our new commandin' officer!"

"Crittendon can wait; tell us about the munitions ship first," LeBeau pressed.

"Oh, _that_ old thing… well, you see, it's all done with mirrors."

" _Quoi?_ "

"That's just an American expression," Kinch clarified for the confused Frenchman.

"No, really… we _did_ actually do it all with mirrors."

Kinch looked distinctly impressed. "Sounds like a neat trick. Do tell."

"And Crittendon was my cellmate, by the way… so Carter, _don't_ forget to remind me tomorrow to think some more about busting you, just for _that_."

"Yes, sir," he replied, straight-faced. "What time tomorrow?"

"What about the pictures of the AA battery? Did they get off to London okay?"

"Piece of cake," Newkirk lied through his teeth. LeBeau looked ready to dispute that, but before he could interject anything, Newkirk decided on his own to fess up. "Well, I guess there might've been one or two little hiccups, sir… besides your trip to Italy, I mean… but Kinch did a marvelous job seein' us through. And we been up and runnin' right along."

Hogan well knew that Kinch would never blow his own horn; he'd have to get the whole story about what had gone on in his absence from the other men separately later on. But he wasn't the least bit surprised to hear that his second in command had done well, and he looked with obvious pride at his sergeant. "Well then, maybe I should just take early retirement and keep out of his way."

"Not a chance," Kinch deferred. "The corner office will always be yours… and you can keep all the headaches that go with it, too."

"Sounds like you did a great job. If your lieutenant's bars aren't already in the mail, they oughta be."

"Excuse me, please," Schultz interjected politely, "but… maybe we get the roll call finished so that LeBeau can start cooking?" And, speaking solely in his own self-interest, he had already overheard things like "munitions ship", "AA battery", "pictures to London", and something very bad that had happened at a fruit store in town where the prisoners were absolutely _not_ supposed to be. It would be much better if they could complete the roll call and he could then go about his business elsewhere; much easier for him to hear no- _thing_. Colonel Hogan wasn't the _only_ one who didn't want anything to spoil this day. There was a five-course meal waiting at the end of it, and Schultz knew he could count on a little of it coming his way should he just happen to stop by the barracks later on.

"Sure, Schultz. And c'mon, everybody look alive this time… that last formation was downright embarrassing."

Improvement was no problem. This time, they all lined up with their heads high. In fact, they had never looked better. Schultz took his time and did a very careful count, a spring in his step as he moved along the ranks, actually enjoying the process for a change, because he already knew the total would turn out to be exactly what he wanted it to be… and he hadn't made it all the way to _fünfzehn_ in much too long.

Just as Schultz reached Colonel Hogan's position and counted him with distinct pleasure _,_ Kommandant Klink managed to find the fortitude and willpower necessary to stop sulking in his office long enough to join them in the compound. "Report!"

"Herr Kommandant… I beg to report…" Even Schultz was wearing a smile, unusual during roll call. "… that today _all_ the prisoners in Barracks 2 are present and accounted for."

As if things weren't already bad enough, Klink withered a bit more inside when he saw that number _fünfzehn_ had just winked at him. "I'll be in my office… and I warn you, I'm leaving orders to shoot to kill _anyone_ who tries to follow me!"

"Look at it this way, Kommandant… your no-escapes record still stands," Hogan reminded him.

"Colonel Hogan, I would be sorely tempted to sacrifice that record to permit _you_ to escape anytime you like! Kindly see to it that the next time it is one-way!"

"Oh, no sir… I've learned my lesson. There's no place like home."

Taking that as their cue, the men began to whistle the old tune as all fifteen of them entered Barracks 2 together.

The rattle of pots and pans began immediately.

The End

 _[This story is dedicated to the memory of Bernard Fox. Thanks for all the laughs, old chap… both on this show and many, many others.]_

 _Author's note: Thanks so much to everyone who was patient and persistent enough to make it through this VERY long story, and for the comments many of you have left in the reviews. I'm glad you enjoyed it!_


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